AND  BALL/\Dg 


***** 


Of  TH€ 


N  People 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS 


OF   THE 


SOUTHERN   PEOPLE. 

1861-1865. 

COLLECTED  AND  EDITED 

BY 
FRANK   MOORE. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLETON   AND    COMPANY, 

I,    3,    AND    5    BOND    STREET. 
1886. 


COPYRIGHT,  1886, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


450 


NOTE  TO   READERS. 


THIS  collection  has  been  made  with  the  view 
of  preserving  in  permanent  form  the  opinions  and 
sentiments  of  the  Southern  people,  as  embodied 
in  their  Songs  and  Ballads  of  1861-1865  ;  which, 
better  than  any  other  medium,  exhibit  the  temper 
of  the  times  and  popular  feeling.  The  historical 
value  of  the  productions  is  admitted.  Age  will 
not  impair  it. 

The  editor  has  endeavored  to  give  the  best 
of  the  inspirations.  A  desire  to  announce  the 
authorship  of  the  pieces  has  been  gratified  in 
most  instances.  Where  requests  have  been  made 
not  to  give  names  and  places  and  circumstances, 
by  whom,  and  where  they  have  been  written,  they 
have  been  regarded,  the  spirit,  meaning  and  intent 
not  being  affected,  nor  in  the  least  abated  by  such 
a  course.  To  those  who  have  assisted  in  collect 
ing,  the  editor  returns  his  thanks.  After  this  vol 
ume  reaches  those  who  are  interested,  should  any 
of  them  desire  to  correct  mistakes  that  may  have 

239906 


T6  READERS. 

crept  into  it,  he  will  be  glad  to  make  the  changes 
required. 

Should  any  one,  into  whose  hands  the  volume 
may  fall,  know  of  copies  of  songs  or  ballads,  or  of 
letters  and  incidents  upon  which  such  are  founded 
— songs  and  ballads,  letters  or  incidents  not  al 
ready  collected  in  book  form — the  editor  will  be 
glad  to  be  advised,  that  means  may  be  taken  for 
their  permanent  preservation,  which  he  is  using 
every  endeavor  to  secure.  A  postal  card,  giving 
name  and  residence,  addressed  to  him,  in  the  care 
of  his  publishers,  D.  Appleton  and  Company,  New 
York  City,  will  receive  immediate  attention. 

The  essence  of  history  exists  in  its  songs. 
Those  that  are  carried  in  the  memory  are  earliest 
forgotten.  It  is  a  praiseworthy  plan  that  saves  all. 
Will  those  who  "  know  them  by  heart,"  and  have 
"sung  them  in  camp  and  in  battle,"  help  to  rescue 
them  from  oblivion  ? 

FRANK  MOORE. 

NEW  YORK,  January,  1886. 


SONGS 


OF   THE 


SOUTHERN     PEOPLE. 


A   POEM   FOR   THE   TIMES. 

BY    JOHN    R.    THOMPSON. 

WHO  talks  of  Coercion?     Who  dares  to  deny 
A  resolute  people  their  right  to  be  free? 

Let   him   blot   out    forever    one    star    from    the 

sky, 
Or  curb  with  his  fetter  one  wave  of  the  sea. 

Who    prates    of    Coercion?       Can    love    be    re 
stored 

To  bosoms  where  only  resentment  may  dwell ; 
Can  peace    upon    earth    be    proclaimed   by   the 

sword, 

Or   good-will   among   men    be   established   by 
shell  ? 


O        SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Shame  !  shame  that  the  statesman  and  trickster, 
forsooth, 

Should  have  for  a  crisis  no  other  recourse, 
Beneath  the  fair  day-spring  of  Light  and  of  Truth, 

Than  the   old   brutum   fulmen  of  Tyranny, — 

Force. 

• , 

From   the   holes   where    Fraud,    Falsehood,    and 

Hate  slink  away  ; 
From  the  crypt   in   which    Error   lies   buried   in 

chains  ; 

This  foul  apparition  stalks  forth  to  the  day, 
And  would  ravage  the  land  which  his  presence 

profanes. 

Could  you  conquer  us,  Men  of  the  North,  could 
you  bring 

Desolation  and  death  on  our  homes  as  a  flood  ; 
Can  you  hope  the  pure  lily,  Affection,  will  spring 

From  ashes  all  reeking  and  sodden  with  blood  ? 

Could  you  brand  us  as  villeins  and  serfs,  know 
ye  not 

What  fierce,  sullen  hatred  lurks  under  the  scar  ? 
How  loyal  to  Hapsburg  is  Venice,  I  wot ; 

How  dearly  the  Pole  loves  his  Father,  the  Czar  ! 


A   POEM  FOR    THE    TIMES.  7 

But  'twere  well  to  remember  this  land  of  the  sun 
Is  a  nutrix  leonum,  and  suckles  a  race 

Strong-armed,  lion-hearted,  and  banded  as  one, 
Who  brook  not  oppression  and  know  not  dis 
grace. 

And  well  may  the  schemers  in  office  beware 
The  swift  retribution  that  waits  upon  crime, 

When  the  lion,  RESISTANCE,  shall  leap  from   his 

lair, 
With  a  fury  that  renders  his  vengeance  sublime. 

Once,  men  of  the  North,  we  were  brothers,  and 

still, 
Though  brothers  no  more,  we  would  gladly  be 

friends  ; 

Nor  join  in  a  conflict  accurst,  that  must  fill 
With  ruin  the  country  on  which  it  descends. 

But  if  smitten  with  blindness,  and  mad  with  the 

rage 
The   gods   give   to   all   whom   they   wished   to 

destroy, 

You  would  act  a  new  Iliad  to   darken  the   age, 
With  horrors  beyond  what  is  told  us  of  Troy : 


8   SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

If,  deaf  as  the  adder  itself  to  the  cries, 

When  Wisdom,  Humanity,  Justice  implore, 
You  would  have  our  proud  eagle  to  feed  on  the 

eyes 

Of  those  who  have  taught  him  so   grandly   to 
soar  : 

If  there  be  to  your  malice  no  limit  imposed, 
And  your  reckless  design  is  to  rule  with   the 
rod 

The  men  upon  whom  you  have  already  closed 
Our  goodly  domain  and  the   temples  of  God  : 

To  the  breeze  then  your  banner  dishonored  un 
fold, 

And  at  once  let  the  tocsin  be  sounded  afar  ; 
We  greet  you,  as  greeted  the  Swiss  Charles   the 

Bold, 

With  a  farewell  to   peace   and  a   welcome  to 
war  ! 

For  the  courage  that  clings  to  our  soil,  ever  bright, 
Shall  catch  inspiration  from  turf  and  from  tide  ; 

Our  sons  unappalled  shall  go  forth  to  the  fight, 
With  the  smile  of  the  fair,  the  pure  kiss  of  the 
bride  : 


ETHNOGENESIS.  9 

And  the  bugle  its  echoes  shall  send  through  the 

past, 

In  the  trenches  of  Yorktown  to  waken  the  slain  \ 
While  the  sods  of  King's   Mountain   shall  heave 

at  the  blast, 
And  give  up  its  heroes  to  glory  again. 

Charleston  Mercury. 


ETHNOGENESIS. 

BY    HENRY    TIMROD.* 
I. 

HATH  not  the  morning  dawned  with  added  light? 

And  will  not  evening  call  another  star 

Out  of  the  infinite  regions  of  the  night, 

To  mark  this  day  in  heaven?     At  last  we  are 

A  nation  among  nations  ;    and  the  world 

Shall  soon  behold  in  many  a  distant  part 

Another  flag  unfurled  ! 
Now,  come  what  may,  whose  favor  need  we  court  ? 

*  Written  on  the  occasion  of  the  meeting  of  the  Confed 
erate  Congress,  at  Montgomery,  February  4,  1861,  and  pub 
lished  in  the  "  Charleston  Courier." 


10     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

And,     under     God,     whose     thunder     need   we 

fear? 

Thank  him  who  placed  us  here 
Beneath  so  kind  a  sky — the  very  sun 
Takes  part  with  us  ;    and  on  our  errands  run 
All  breezes  of  the  ocean ;    dew  and  rain 
Do  noiseless  battle  for  us  ;    and  the  year 
And  all  the  gentle  daughters  in  her  train 
March  in  our  ranks,  and  in  our  service  wield 

Long  spears  of  golden  grain ! 
A  yellow  blossom  as  her  fairy  shield 
June  flings  our  azure  banner  to  the  wind, 

While  in  the  order  of  their  birth 
Her  sisters  pass,  and  many  an  ample  field 
Grows   white   beneath   their   steps,  till  now  be 
hold 

Its  endless  sheets  unfold 
THE  SNOW   OF   SOUTHERN   SUMMERS  !      Let   the 

earth 

Rejoice !  beneath  those  fleeces  soft  and  warm 
Our  happy  land  shall  sleep 
In  a  repose  as  deep 
As  if  we  lay  intrenched  behind 
Whole     leagues     of     Russian     ice     and     Arctic 
storm ! 


E  THNOGENESIS.  1 1 

II. 

And  what,  if  mad  with  wrongs    themselves  have 
wrought, 

In  their  own  treachery  caught, 
By  their  own  fears  made  bold, 
And  leagued  with  him  of  old, 
Who  long  since  in  the  limits  of  the  North 
Set  up  his  evil  throne,  and  warred  with  God — 
What  if,  both  mad  and  blinded  in  their  rage, 
Our    foes    should   fling    us    down    their    mortal 

gage, 

And  with  a  hostile  step  profane  our  sod  ! 
We  shall  not  shrink,  my  brothers,  but  go  forth 
To  meet  them,  marshaled  by  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
And  overshadowed  by  the  mighty  ghosts 
Of  Moultrie  and  of  Eutaw — who  shall  foil 
Auxiliars  such  as  these  ?     Nor  these  alone, 

But  every  stock  and  stone 
Shall  help  us;  but  the  very  soil, 
And  all  the  generous  wealth  it  gives  to  toil, 
And  all  for  which  we  love  our  noble  land, 
Shall     fight    beside,    and    through   us,    sea    and 

strand, 
The  heart  of  woman,  and  her  hand, 


12     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Tree,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  influence 
Gentle  or  grave  or  grand. 
The  winds  in  our  defense 
Shall  seem  to  blow  ;  to  us  the  hills  shall  lend 

Their  firmness  and  their  calm ; 
And  in  our  stiffened  sinews  we  shall  blend 
The  strength  of  pine  and  palm ! 

in. 
Look  where  we  will,  we  can  not  find  a  ground 

For  any  mournful  song : 
Call  up  the  clashing  elements  around, 

And  test  the  right  and  wrong! 
On  one  side,  pledges  broken,  creeds  that  lie, 
Religion  sunk  in  vague  philosophy, 
Empty  professions,  pharisaic  leaven, 
Souls    that    would   sell    their    birthright    in   the 

sky, 

Philanthropists  who  pass  the  beggar  by, 
And  laws  which  controvert  the  laws  of  Heaven. 
And,  on  the  other — first,  a  righteous  cause  ! 

Then,  honor  without  flaws, 
Truth,  Bible  reverence,  charitable  wealth, 
And  for  the  poor  and  humble,  laws  which  give, 
Not  the  mean  right  to  buy  the  right  to  live, 


E  THNOGENESIS.  1 3 

But  life,  and  home,  and  health. 
To  doubt  the  issue  were  distrust  in  God  ! 
If  in  his  Providence  he  hath  decreed 
That  to  the  peace  for  which  we  pray, 
Through  the  Red  Sea  of  War  must  lie  our  way, 
Doubt  not,  O  brothers,  we  shall  find  at  need 

A  Moses  with  his  rod  ! 

IV. 

But  let  our  fears — if  fears  we  have — be  still, 
And  turn  us  to  the  future  !     Could  we  climb 
Some  Alp  in  thought,  and  view  the  coming  time, 
We  should  indeed  behold  a  sight  to  fill 

Our  eyes  with  happy  tears  ! 
Not  for  the  glories  which  a  hundred  years 
Shall  bring  us ;  not  for  lands  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  wealth,  and  power,  and  peace,  though  these 

shall  be ; 

But  for  the  distant  peoples  we  shall  bless, 
And  the  hushed  murmurs  of  a  world's  distress  : 
For,  to  give  food  and  clothing  to  the  poor, 

The  whole  sad  planet  o'er, 

And  save  from  crime  its  humblest  human  door, 
Our  mission  is  !     The  hour  is  not  yet  ripe 
When  all  shall  see  it,  but  behold  the  type 


14     SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Of  what  we  are  and  shall  be  to  the  world, 

In  our  own  grand  and  genial  Gulf  stream  furled, 

Which  through  the  vast  and  colder  ocean  pours 

Its  waters,  so  that  far-off  Arctic  shores 

May  sometimes  catch  upon  the  softened  breeze 

Strange  tropic  warmth  and  hints  of  summer  seas. 


THE   SOUTHERN  CROSS. 

BY    ST.    GEORGE    TUCKER. 
AiR—TXte  Star  Spangled  Banner. 

OH,  say,  can   you   see,  through   the   gloom   and 

the  storm, 

More  bright  for  the  darkness,  that   pure  con 
stellation  ? 
Like    the    symbol    of   love    and    redemption    its 

form, 
As   it   points   to   the   haven   of    hope   for   the 

nation. 

How  radiant,  each  star,  as  the  beacon  afar, 
Giving   promise    of   peace,  or   assurance   in 


THE   SOUTHERN  CROSS.  IS 

'Tis   the   Cross   of  the    South,    which    shall 

ever  remain, 
To  light  us  to  Freedom  and  Glory  again! 

How  peaceful  and  blest  was  America's  soil, 
Till    betrayed    by   the    guile    of    the    Puritan 

demon, 
Which  lurks  under  virtue,  and   springs  from   its 

coil 

To  fasten  its  fangs  in  the   life-blood   of   free 
men. 
Then  loudly  appeal,  to  each  heart  that  can 

feel, 
And   crush   the   foul   viper  'neath  Liberty's 

heel! 
And   the    Cross   of   the    South  shall  forever 

remain, 
To  light  us  to  Freedom  and  Glory  again  ! 

'Tis  the   emblem   of  peace,  'tis   the   day-star   of 

hope, 
Like  the    sacred    Labarum,  which    guided   the 

Roman  ; 
From  the  shores  of  the  Gulf   to   the  Delaware's 

slope, 


1 6     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Tis  the  trust  of  the   free,  and   the   terror  of 

foemen. 
Fling  its  folds  to   the   air,  while   we   boldly 

declare 
The  rights   we    demand,  or   the   deeds   that 

we  dare; 
And  the  Cross   of  the   South   shall   forever 

remain, 
To  light  us  to  Freedom  and  Glory  again  ! 

But   if  peace    should    be    hopeless,    and   justice 

denied, 
And    war's    bloody    vulture    should    flap    his 

black  pinions, 

Then  gladly  to  arms  !  while  we  hurl  in  our  pride, 

Defiance  to  tyrants,  and  death  to  their  minions, 

With  our  front  to  the  field,  swearing  never 

to  yield, 
Or  return,  like  the  Spartan,  in  death  on  our 

shield  ; 

And  the  Cross  of   the  South  shall   triumph 
antly  wave 
As  the  flag  of  the  Free,  or  the  pall   of   the 

brave. 

Southern  Literary  Messenger, 


HARP  OF  THE  SOUTH,   AWAKE.          I/ 
HARP   OF   THE   SOUTH,   AWAKE! 

BY    J.    M.    KILGOUR. 

HARP  of  the  South,  awake ! 

From  every  golden  wire, 
Let  the  voice  of  thy  power  go  forth, 

Like  the  rush  of  a  prairie  fire ; 
With  the  rush  and  the  rhythm  of  a  power 

That  dares  a  freeman's  grave, 
Rather  than  live  to  wear 

The  chains  of  a  truckling  slave. 

Harp  of  the  South,  awake  ! 

Thy  sons  are  aroused  at  last, 
And  their  legions  are  gathering  now, 

To  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  blast ; 
To  the  scream  of  the  piercing  fife, 

And  the  beat  of  the  rolling  drum, 
From  mountain,  and  hill,  and  plain, 

And  field,  and  town,  they  come. 

Harp  of  the  South,  awake  ! 

Their  banners  are  on  the  breeze  ; 
Tell  the  world  how  vain  the  thought 

To  subdue  such  men  as  these, 


1 8     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

With  hero  hearts  that  beat, 

To  the  throbs  of  the  spirit-flame, 

Which  will  kindle  their  battle-fires 
In  freedom's  holy  name. 

Harp  of  the  South,  awake  ! 

But  not  to  sing  of  love, 
In  shady  forest-bower, 

Or  fragrant  orange  grove ; 
Oh,  no,  but  thy  song  must  be 

The  wrath  of  the  battle  crash, 
Inscribed  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

With  the  pen  of  its  lightning  flash. 

Harp  of  the  South,  awake  ! 

And  strike  the  strains  once  more, 
Which  nerved  thy  heroes'  hearts 

In  the  glorious  days  of  yore  ; 
Which  gave  a  giant's  strength 

To  the  arm  of  MARION, 
Of  SUMTER,  MORGAN,  LEE, 

And  your  own  great  WASHINGTON. 

Harp  of  the  South,  awake  ! 

Your  freedom's  angel  calls, 
In  the  laugh  of  the  rippling  rills, 

And  the  roar  of  the  waterfalls. 


HARP   OF   THE   SOUTH,  AWAKE!          ig 

See  how  she  bends  to  hear, 

As  she  walks  the  valleys  through, 

And  along  the  mountain  tops, 
In  robes  of  gold  and  blue. 

Harp  of  the  South,  awake  ! 

The  proud,  the  full-soul'd  South — 
With  the.  dusk  of  her  flashing  eyes, 

And  the  lure  of  her  rosy  mouth — 
With  love,  or  pride,  or  wrath, 

Thrilling  her  noble  form, 
As  she  smiles  like  a  summer  sky, 

Or  frowns  like  a  summer  storm ! 

Harp  of  the  South,  awake ! 

Though  the  soldier's  beaming  tear 
May  fall  on  thy  trembling  strings, 

As  he  breathes  his  farewell  prayer  ; 
Yet,  tell  him  how  to  die 

On  the  bloody  battle-field, 
Rather  than  to  her  foes 

The  gallant  South  should  yield.* 

*  These  lines  were  published,  and  respectfully  dedicated 
to  Captain  Bradley  T.  Johnson,  of  the  Frederick  (Md.) 
Volunteers,  now  (1861)  in  service  in  Virginia,  by  his  friend 
J.  M.  Kilgour,  their  author. 


20     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
ARISE. 

BY  C.  G.  POYNAS. 

CAROLINIANS  !   who  inherit 

Blood  which  flowed  in  patriot  veins ! 
Rouse  ye  from  lethargic  slumber, 

Rouse  and  fling  away  your  chains  ! 
From  the  mountain  to  the  seaboard, 

Let  the  cry  be — Up  !  Arise  ! 
Throw  our  pure  Palmetto  banner 

Proudly  upward  to  the  skies. 

Fling  it  out !    its  lone  star  beaming 

Brightly  to  the  nation's  gaze; 
Lo !   another  star  arises  ! 

Quickly,  proudly  it  emblaze  ! 
Yet  another  !     Bid  it  welcome 

With  a  hearty  "  three  times  three  "  ; 
Send  it  forth,  on  boom  of  cannon, 

Southern  men  will  dare  be  free. 

Faster  than  the  cross  of  battle 

Summoned  rude  Clan  Alpine's  host, 

Flash  the  news  from  sea  to  mountain — 
Back  from  mountain  to  the  coast ! 


ARISE.  21 

On  the  lightning's  wing  it  fleeth, 

Scares  the  eagle  in  his  flight, 
As  his  keen  eye  sees  arising 

Glory,  yet  shall  daze  his  sight ! 

Cease  the  triumph — days  of  darkness 

Loom  upon  us  from  afar : 
Can  a  woman's  voice  for  battle 

Ring  the  fatal  note  of  war  ? 
Yes — when  we  have  borne  aggression 

Till  submission  is  disgrace — 
Southern  women  call  for  action; 

Ready  would  the  danger  face  ! 

Yes,  in  many  a  matron's  bosom 

Burns  the  Spartan  spirit  now  ; 
From  the  maiden's  eye  it  flashes, 

Glows  upon  her  snowy  brow  ; 
E'en  our  infants  in  their  prattle 

Urge  us  on  to  risk  our  all — 
"Would  we  leave  them,  as  a  blessing. 

The  oppressor's  hateful  thrall  ? " 

No  ! — then  up,  true-hearted  Southrons, 
Like  bold  "  giants  nerved  by  wine  "  ; 

Never  fear  !     The  cause  is  holy — 
It  is  sacred — yea,  divine  ! 


22     SO NG S  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

For  the  Lord  of  Hosts  is  with  us, 
It  is  He  has  cast  our  lot ; 

Blest  our  homes — from  lordly  mansion 
To  the  humblest  negro  cot. 

God  of  battles  !    hear  our  cry — 
Give  us  nerve  to  do  or  die! 


THE   STAR   OF   THE   WEST. 

I  WISH  I  was  in  de  land  o'  cotton, 
Old  times  dair  ain't  not  forgotten  — 

Look  away,  etc. 

In  Dixie  land  whar  I  was  born  in, 
Early  on  one  frosty  mornin' — 

Look  away,  etc. 

Chorus — Den  I  wish  I  was  in  Dixie. 

In  Dixie  land  dat  frosty  mornin', 

Jis  'bout  de  time  de  day  was  dawnin', 

Look  away,  etc. 

De  signal  fire  from  de  east  bin  roarin', 
Rouse  up,  Dixie,  no  more  snorin' — 

Look  away,  etc. 

Den  I  wish  I  was  in  Dixie. 


FAREWELL    TO    BROTHER  JONATHAN.   2$ 

Dat  rocket  high  a  blazing  in  de  sky, 

Tis  de  sign  dat  de  snobbies  am  comin'  up  nigh — 

Look  away,  etc. 
Dey  bin   braggin'  long,  if   we   dare    to    shoot    a 

shot, 
Dey  comin'  up  strong  and  dey'll   send  us  all  to 

pot. 
Fire  away,  fire  away,  lads  in  gray. 

Den  I  wish  I  was  in  Dixie. 
Charleston  Mercury. 


FAREWELL   TO    BROTHER    JONATHAN. 

BY  "CAROLINE." 

FAREWELL  !  we  must  part ;  we  have  turned  from 

the  land 

Of  our  cold-hearted  brother,  with  tyrannous  hand, 
Who  assumed  all  our  rights  as  a  favor  to  grant, 
And  whose  smile  ever  covered  the  sting  of  a 

taunt ; 

Who  breathed   on    the   fame   he  was   bound   to 

defend — 
Still  the  craftiest  foe,  'neath  the  guise  of  a  friend ; 


24     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Who   believed   that  our  bosoms  would  bleed  at 

a  touch, 
Yet  could  never  believe  he  could  goad  them  too 

much  ; 

Whose  conscience  affects  to  be  seared  with  our 

sin, 

Yet  is  plastic  to  take  all  its  benefits  in  ; 
The  mote  in  our  eye  so  enormous  has  grown, 
That  he  never  perceives   there's  a  beam  in   his 

own. 

O  Jonathan,  Jonathan  !  vassal  of  pelf, 
Self-righteous,  self-glorious,  yes,  every  inch  self, 
Your  loyalty  now  is  all  bluster  and  boast, 
But  was  dumb  when  the  foemen  invaded  our  coast. 

In  vain  did  your  country  appeal  to  you  then, 
You  coldly  refused  her  your  money  and  men  ; 
Your  trade  interrupted,  you  slunk  from  her  wars, 
And  preferred  British  gold  to  the  Stripes  and  the 
Stars  ! 

Then  our  generous  blood  was   as   water    poured 

forth, 
And  the  sons  of  the  South  were  the    shields   of 

the  North; 


FAREWELL    TO  BROTHER  JONATHAN.   2$ 

Nor  our  patriot  ardor  one  moment  gave  o'er, 
Till  the  foe  you  had  fed  we  had  driven  from  the 
shore  ! 

Long  years   we   have   suffered   opprobrium    and 

wrong, 
But   we    clung    to  your   side   with   affection    so 

strong, 
That   at  last,  in   mere    wanton    aggression,   you 

broke 
All  the  ties  of   our  hearts   with   one   murderous 

stroke. 

We  are  tired  of  contest  for  what  is  our  own, 
We   are   sick   of    a   strife   that   could   never    be 

done; 
Thus  our  love  has  died    out,  and   its  altars    are 

dark, 
Not  Prometheus's  self  could  rekindle  the  spark. 

O  Jonathan,  Jonathan  !  deadly  the  sin 

Of  your   tigerish    thirst   for   the   blood   of  your 

kin ; 

And  shameful  the  spirit  that  gloats  over  wives 
And  maidens  despoiled  of  their  honor  and  lives  ! 


26    SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Your  palaces  rise  from  the  fruits  of  our  toil, 
Your  millions  are  fed  from  the  wealth  of  our  soil ; 
The  balm  of  our  air  brings  the   health   to   your 

cheek, 
And  our  hearts  are  aglow  with  the   welcome  we 

speak. 

O  brother !  beware  how  you  seek  us  again, 
Lest  you  brand  on  your   forehead   the  signet  of 

Cain  ; 
That  blood   and  that  crime   on  your   conscience 

must  sit ; 
We  may  fall — we  may  perish — but  never  submit ! 

The  pathway  that  leads  to  the  Pharisee's  door 
We  remember,  indeed,  but  we  tread  it  no  more  ; 
Preferring  to  turn,  with  the  Publican's  faith, 
To  the  path  through  the  valley  and   shadow   of 
death  ! 


THE    UNIFORM  OF  GRAY.  2/ 

THE   UNIFORM   OF   GRAY. 

BY    EVAN    ELBERT. 

THE  Briton  boasts  his  coat  of  red, 

With  lace  and  spangles  decked  ; 
In  garb  of  green  the  French  are  seen, 

With  gaudy  colors  flecked; 
The  Yankees  strut  in  dingy  blue, 

And  epaulets  display; 
Our  Southern  girls  more  proudly  view 

The  uniform  of  gray. 

That  dress  is  worn  by  gallant  hearts 

Who  every  foe  defy, 
Who  stalwart  stand,  with  battle-brand, 

To  conquer  or  to  die  ! 
They  fight  for  freedom,   hope  and  home, 

And  honor's  voice  obey, 
And  proudly  wear  where'er  they  roam 

The  uniform  of  gray. 

What  though  'tis  stained  with  crimson  hues, 
And  dim  with  dust  and  smoke, 

By  bullets  torn,  and  rent  and  shorn 
By  many  a  hostile  stroke  ; 


28     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

The  march,  the  camp,  the  bivouac, 

The  onset  and  the  fray 
But  only  serve  more  dear  to  make 

The  uniform  of  gray. 

When  wild  war's  tiger-strife  is  past, 

And  liberty  restored ; 
When  independence  reigns   at  last, 

By  valor's  arm  secured ; 
The  South  will  stand,  erect  and  grand, 

And  loftiest  honors  pay 
To  those  who  bore  her  flag,  and  wore 

The  uniform  of  gray. 

And  woman's  love,  man's  best  reward, 

Shall  cluster  round  their  path, 
And  soothe  and  cheer  the  volunteer 

Who  dared  the  foe  man's  wrath. 
Bright  wreaths  she'll  bring,   and  roses   fling 

Around  his  triumph-way, 
And  long  in  song  thy  fame  prolong 

Old  uniform  of  gray. 


44  WE   CONQUER   OR  DIE."  29 

"WE   CONQUER   OR   DIE.'1 

BY    JAMES    PIERPONT. 

THE  war  drum  is  beating,  prepare  for  the  fight, 
The  stern  bigot  Northman  exults  in  his  might, 
Gird  on  your  bright  weapons,  your  foemen  are 

nigh  ; 
Let  this  be  our  watchword,  "  We  conquer  or  die  !  " 

The  trumpet  is  sounding  from  mountain  to  shore, 
Your  swords  and  your  lances  must  slumber  no 

more, 

Fling  forth  to  the  sunlight  your  banner  on  high, 
Inscribed  with  the  watchword,  "  We  conquer  or 

die !  " 

March  to  the  battlefield,  there  do  or  dare, 
With  shoulder  to  shoulder,  all  danger  to    share, 
And  let  your  proud  watchword  ring  up  to  the  sky, 
Till  the  blue  arch  re-echoes  "  We  conquer  or  die  !  " 

Press  forward  undaunted,  nor  think  of  retreat, 
The  enemy's  host  on  the  threshold  to  meet  ; 
Strike  firm  till  the  foeman  before  you  shall  fly, 
Appalled   by  the  watchword,  "We    conquer    or 
die!" 


30     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Go  forth  in  the  pathway  our  forefathers  trod  ; 
We,  too,  fight  for  freedom — our  Captain  is  God  ; 
Their  blood  in  our  veins,  with  their  honor  we  vie, 
Theirs,  too,  was  the  watchword.  "  We    conquer 
or  die  ! " 

We  strike  for  the  South — mountain,  valley    and 

plain — 

For  the  South  we  will  conquer  again  and  again  ; 
Her  day  of  salvation  and  triumph  is  nigh, 
Ours,  then,  be  the  watchword,  "We  conquer  or 

die !  " 


SONS   OF   FREEDOM. 

BY    NANNY    GRAY. 

SONS  of  freedom,  on  to  glory 

Go,  where  brave  men  do  or  die, 
Let  your  names  in  future  story 

Gladden  every  patriot's  eye  ; 
'Tis  your  country  calls  you,  hasten  ! 

Backward  hurl  the  invading  foe  ; 
Freemen  never  think  of  danger, — 

To  the  glorious  battle  go  ! 


"CALL  ALL!    CALL  ALL!r  31 

Oh  !  remember  gallant  Jackson, 

Single-handed  in  the  fight, 
Death-blows  dealt  the  fierce  marauder, 

For  his  liberty  and  right ; 
Tho'  he  fell  beneath  their  thousands, 

Who  that  covets  not  his  fame  ? 
Grand  and  glorious,  brave  and  noble, 

Henceforth  shall  be  Jackson's  name. 

Sons  of  freedom,  can  you  linger 

When  you  hear  the  battle's  roar, 
Fondly  dallying  with  your  pleasures 

When  the  foe  is  at  your  door? 
Never !  no  !  we  fear  no  idlers, 

"  Death  or  freedom  "  *s  now  the  cry, 
'Till  the  stars  and  bars,  triumphant, 

Spread  their  folds  to  every  eye. 

Richmond  Whig. 


"CALL  ALL!     CALL   ALL!'1 


WHOOP  !  the  Doodles  have  broken  loose, 
Roaring  round  like  the  very  deuce ! 


32     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Lice  of  Egypt,  a  hungry  pack, — 
After  'em,  boys,  and  drive  'em  back. 

Bull-dog,  terrier,  cur,  and  fice, 
Back  to  the  beggarly  land  of  ice  ; 
Worry  'em,  bite  'em,  scratch  and  tear 
Everybody  and  everywhere. 

Old  Kentucky  is  caved  from  under, 
Tennessee  is  split  asunder, 
Alabama  awaits  attack, 
And  Georgia  bristles  up  her  back. 

Old  John  Brown  is  dead  and  gone  ! 
Still  his  spirit  is  marching  on, — 
Lantern-jawed,  and  legs,  my  boys, 
Long  as  an  ape's  from  Illinois  ! 

Want  a  weapon?     Gather  a  brick, 
Club  or  cudgel,  or  stone  or  stick ; 
Anything  with  a  blade  or  butt, 
Anything  that  can  cleave  or  cut. 

Anything  heavy,  or  hard,  or  keen ! 
Any  sort  of  slaying  machine  ! 
Anything  with  a  willing  mind, 
And  the  steady  arm  of  a  man  behind. 


THE  ORDERED  AWAY.  33 

Want  a  weapon  ?    Why,  capture  one  ! 
Every  Doodle  has  got  a  gun, 
Belt,  and  bayonet,  bright  and  new  ; 
Kill  a  Doodle,  and  capture  two! 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  son  and  sire! 
All,  call  all !  to  the  feast  of  fire ! 
Mother  and  maiden,  and  child  and  slave, 
A  common  triumph  or  a  single  grave. 

Rockingham^  Va.t  Register. 


THE   ORDERED   AWAY. 

Dedicated  to  the  Oglethorpe  and  Walker  Light  Infantries. 
BY    MRS.    J.    J.    JACOBUS. 

AT  the  end  of  each  street,  a  banner  we  meet, 

The  people  all  march  in  a  mass, 
But  quickly  aside,  they  step  back  with  pride, 

To  let  the  brave  companies  pass. 
The  streets  are  dense  filled,  but  the  laughter   is 
still'd— 

The  crowd  is  all  going  one  way  ; 
Their  cheeks  are  blanched  white,  but  they  smile 
as  they  light 

Lift  their  hats  to  the — Ordered  away. 


34     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

They  smile  while  the   dart   deeply   pierces   their 
heart, 

But  each  eye  flashes  back  the  war-glance, 
As  they  watch  the   brave   file   march  up  with   a 
smile, 

'Neath  their  flag — with  their  muskets  and  lance  ; 
The  cannon's  loud  roar  vibrates  on  the  shore, 

But  the  people  are  quiet  to- day ', 
As,  startled,  they  see  how  fearless  and  free 

March  the  companies — Ordered  away. 

Not  a  quiver  or  gleam  of  fear  can  be  seen, 

Though  they  go  to  meet  death  in  disguise  ; 
For  the  hot  air  is  filled  with  poison  distilled 

'Neath  the  rays  of  fair  Florida's  skies. 
Hark  !  the  drum  and  fife  awake  to  new  life 

The  soldiers  who—*'  Can't  get  away  ;  " 
Who  wish,  as  they  wave  their  hats  to  the  brave? 

That  they  were  the — Ordered  away. 

As  our  parting  grows    near,  let    us  quell    back 
the  tear, 

Let  our  smiles  shine  as  bright  as  of  yore; 
Let  us  stand  with  the  mass,  salute  as  they  pass, 

And  weep  when  we  see  them  no  more. 


THE  ORDERED  AWAY.  35 

Let  no  tear-drop  or  sigh  dim   the   light   of  our 
eye, 

Or  move  from  our  lips,  as  they  say — 
While  waving  our  hand  to  a  brave  little  band — 

Good-by  to  the — Ordered  away. 

Let  them  go,  in  God's  name,  in  defense  of  their 

fame, 

Brave  death  at  the  cannon's  wide  mouth  ; 
Let    them    honor    and    save    the    land    of   the 

brave, 

Plant  Freedom's  bright  flag  in  the  South. 
Let  them  go!  While   we    weep,  and   lone   vigils 

keep, 

We  will  bless  them,  and  fervently  pray 
To  the  God  whom  we  trust,  for  our  cause  firm 

but  just% 
And  our  loved  ones — the  Ordered  away. 

When   fierce  battles  storm,  we  will  rise  up  each 

morn, 

Teach  our  young  sons  the  saber  to  wield  : 
Should  their  brave  fathers  die,  we  will  arm  them  to 

fly 
And  fill  up  the  gap  in  the  field. 


36     SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Then,  fathers  and  brothers,  fond  husbands  and 

lovers, 

March  !  march  bravely  on  !      We  will  stay, 
Alone  in  our  sorrow,  to  pray  on  each  morrow 
For  our  loved  ones — the  Ordered  away. 
AUGUSTA,  GA.,  April  2,  1861. 


THE   MARTYR   OF  ALEXANDRIA. 

BY   JAMES   W.    SIMMONS. 

REVEALED,  as  in  a  lightning  flash, 

A  Hero  stood  ! 
The  invading  foe,  the  trumpet's  crash, 

Set  up  his  blood  ! 

High  o'er  the  sacred  pile  that  bends 

Those  forms  above, 
Thy  Star,  O  Freedom  !  brightly  blends 

Its  rays  with  Love. 

The  banner  of  a  mighty  race 

Serenely  there 
Unfurls — the  genius   of  the  place, 

And  haunted  air  ! 


THE  MARTYR   OF  ALEXANDRIA.         3 

A  vow  is  registered  in  heaven — 

Patriot !   'twas  thine 
To  guard  those  matchless  colors,   given 

By  hand  divine. 

Jackson  !  thy  spirit  may  not  hear 

The  wail  ascend  ! 
A  nation  bends  above  thy  bier, 

And  mourns  its  friend. 

Thy  example  is  thy  monument ; 

In    organ  tones 
Thy  name  resounds,  with  glory  blent, 

Prouder  than  thrones  ! 

And  they  whose  loss  has  been  our  gain 

A  People's  care 
Shall   win  their  hearts  from  pain, 

And  wipe  the  tear. 

When  time  shall  set  the   captive  free, 

Now  scathed  by   wrath, 
Heirs  of  his  immortality, 

Bright  be  their  path. 
INDIANOLA,  TEXAS. 


38    -SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

DIXIE. 

Southrons,   hear  your  Country  call  you  ! 

BY    ALBERT    PIKE. 

SOUTHRONS,  hear  your  Country  call  you  ! 
Up  !  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you  ! 

To  arms  !   To  arms  !  To  arms  !  in  Dixie  ! 
Lo  !  all  the  beacon-fires   are  lighted, 
Let  all  hearts   be  now  united  ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  arms  !  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie  ! 
To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter  ! 
Northern  flags  in  South  wind  flutter ; 
To  arms,  etc., 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 


DIXIE.  39 

Fear  no  danger !     Shun  no  labor  ! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  saber ! 

To  arms,  etc. 

Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder! 

To  arms,  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices, 
At  your  cannons'  ringing  voices  ; 

To  arms !  etc. 

For  faith  betrayed  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken  ; 

To  arms !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles; 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Cut  the  unequal  words  asunder ! 
Let  them  then  each  other  plunder ! 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar, 
Never  to  submit  or  falter ! 
To  arms!  etc. 


40     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 
To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation 

Secures  among  Earth's  Powers  its  station ! 

To  arms !  etc. 

Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story ! 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness: 

To  arms  !    etc. 

Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow  ; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms!  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 


THE  RIGHT  ABOVE    THE    WRONG.        41 
THE   RIGHT   ABOVE   THE   WRONG. 

BY   JOHN    W.    OVERALL. 

IN  other  days  our  fathers'  love  was  loyal,  full, 
and  free, 

For  those  they  left  behind  them  in  the  Island  of 
the  Sea  ; 

They  fought  tlie  battles  of  King  George,  and 
toasted  him  in  song, 

For  them  the  Right  kept  proudly  down  the  tyr 
anny  of  Wrong. 

But  when    the  King's  weak,  willing  slaves   laid 

tax  upon  the  tea, 
The  Western  men  rose  up  and  braved  the  Island 

of  the  Sea  ; 
And  swore  a  fearful  oath  to  God,  those  men  of 

iron  might, 
That  in  the  end  the  Wrong  should  die,  and  up 

should  go  the  Right. 

The  King  sent  over  hireling  hosts — Briton,  Hes 
sian,  Scot — 

And  swore  in  turn  those  Western  men,  when 
captured,  should  be  shot; 


42     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

While  Chatham  spoke  with  earnest  tongue  against 

the  hireling  throng, 
And   mournfully  saw   the   Right   go   down,   and 

place  give  to  the  Wrong. 

But  God  was  on  the  righteous  side,  and  Gideon's 
sword  was  out, 

With  clash  of  steel,  and  rattling, drum,  and  free 
man's  thunder-shout  ; 

And  crimson  torrents  drenched  the  land  through 
that  long,  stormy  fight, 

But  in  the  end,  hurrah  !  the  Wrong  was  beaten 
by  the  Right ! 

And  when  again  the  foemen  came  from  out  the 
Northern  Sea, 

To  desolate  our  smiling  land  and  subjugate  the 
free, 

Our  fathers  rushed  to  drive  them  back,  with 
rifles  keen  and  long, 

And  swore  a  mighty  oath,  the  Right  should  subju 
gate  the  Wrong. 

And  while  the  world  was  looking  on,  the  strife 

uncertain  grew, 
But  soon  aloft  rose  up  our  stars  amid  a  field  of  blue  ; 


THE  RIGHT  ABOVE    THE    WRONG.        43 

For  Jackson  fought  on  red  Chalmette,  and  won 

the  glorious  fight, 
And  then  the  Wrong  went  down,  hurrah  !    and 

triumph  crowned  the  Right ! 

The  day  has  come  again,   when  men  who  love 

the  beauteous  South, 
To  speak,  if  needs  be,  for  the  Right,  though  by 

the  cannon's  mouth  ; 
For  foes  accursed  of  God  and  man,  with  lying 

speech  and  song, 
Would  bind,  imprison,  hang  the  Right,  and  deify 

the  Wrong. 

But  canting  knave  of  pen  and  sword,  nor  sancti 
monious  fool, 

Shall  ever  win  this  Southern  land,  to  cripple, 
bind,  and  rule; 

We'll  muster  on  each  bloody  plain,  thick  as  the 
stars  of  night, 

And,  through  the  help  of  God,  the  Wrong  shall 
perish  by  the  Right. 

New  Orleans  True  Delta. 


44     SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
TO   MY   SOLDIER   BROTHER. 

BY   SALLIE    E.    BALLARD. 

WHEN  softly  gathering  shades  of  ev'n 

Creep  o'er  the  prairies  broad  and  green, 
And  countless  stars  bespangle  heav'n, 

And  fringe  the  clouds  with  silv'ry  sheen, 
My  fondest  sigh  to  thee  is  giv'n, 
My  lonely  wand'ring  soldier-boy  ; 
And  thoughts  of  thee 
Steal  over  me 
Like  ev'ning  shades,  my  soldier  boy. 

My  brother,  though  thou'rt  far  away, 
And  dangers  hurtle  round  thy  path, 
And  battle  lightnings  o'er  thee  play, 
And  thunders  peal  in  awful  wrath, 
Think,  whilst  thou'rt  in  the  hot  affray, 
Thy  sister  prays  for  thee,  my  boy. 
If  fondest  prayer 
Can  shield  thee  there, 
Sweet  angels  guard  my  soldier  boy. 

Thy  proud  young  heart  is  beating  high 
To  clash  of  arms  and  cannons'  roar; 


THE   SOUTH  IN  ARMS.  45 

That  firm  set  lip  and  flashing  eye 

Tell  how  thy  heart  is  brimming  o'er. 
Be  free  and  live,  be  free  or  die! 
Be  that  thy  motto  now,  my  boy ; 

And  though  thy  name's 

Unknown  to  fame's 
'Tis  graven  on  my  heart,  my  boy. 


THE   SOUTH   IN   ARMS. 

BY   REV.    J.    H.    MARTIN. 

OH  !  see  ye  not  the  sight  sublime, 
Unequaled  in  all  previous  time, 
Presented  in  this  Southern  clime, 

The  home  of  chivalry  ? 

A  warlike  race  of  freemen  stand, 
With  martial  front  and  sword  in  hand, 
Defenders  of  their  native  land, — 
The  sons  of  Liberty. 

Unawed  by  numbers,  they  defy 
The  tyrant  North,  nor  will  they  fly, 
Resolved  to  conquer  or  to  die, 

And  win  a  glorious  name. 


46     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Sprung  from  renowned  heroic  sires, 
Inflamed  with  patriotic  fires, 
Their  bosoms  burn  with  fierce  desires, 
They  thirst  for  victory. 

'Tis  not  the  love  of  bloody  strife, 

The  horrid  sacrifice  of  life, 

But  thoughts  of  mother,  sister,  wife, 

That  stir  their  manly  hearts. 

A  sense  of  honor  bids  them  go, 
To  meet  a  hireling,  ruthless  foe, 
And  deal  in  wrath  the  deadly  blow 

Which  vengeance  loud  demands. 

In  freedom's  sacred  cause  they  fight, 
For  Independence,  Justice,  Right, 
And  to  resist  a  desperate  might. 
And  by  Manassas'  glorious  name, 
And  by  Missouri's  fields  of  fame, 
We  hear  them  swear,  with  one  acclaim, 
We'll  triumph  or  we'll  die ! 


MELT   THE  BELLS.  47 

MELT   THE   BELLS. 

BY    F.    Y.    ROCKETT. 

MELT  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Still  the  tinkling  on  the  plain, 
And  transmute  the  evening  chimes 
Into  war's  resounding  rhymes, 
That  the  invaders  may  be  slain 
By  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
That  for  years  have  called  to  prayer, 
And,  instead,  the   cannon's  roar 
Shall  resound  the  valleys  o'er, 
That  the  foe  may  catch  despair 
From  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Though  it  cost  a  tear  to  part 
With  the  music  they  have  made, 
Where  the  friends  we  love  are  laid, 
With  pale  cheek  and  silent  heart, 
'Neath  the  bells. 


48     SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Into  cannon,  vast  and  grim, 
And  the  foe  shall  feel  the  ire 
From  the  heaving  lungs  of  fire, 
And  we'll  put  our  trust  in  Him, 
And  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
And  when  foes  no  more  attack, 
And  the  lightning  cloud  of  war 
Shall  roll  thunderless  and  far, 
We  will  melt  the  cannon  back 
Into  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the   bells, 
And  they'll  peal  a  sweeter  chime, 
And  remind  of  all  the  brave 
Who  have  sunk  to  glory's  grave, 
And  will  sleep  through  coming  time 
'Neath  the  bells.* 

*  These  lines  were  written  when  General  Beauregard  ap 
pealed  to  the  people  of  the  South  to  contribute  their  bells, 
that  they  might  be  melted  into  cannon. 


TO    THE    TORIES  OF   VIRGINIA.  49 

TO   THE   TORIES   OF   VIRGINIA. 

"  I  speak  this  unto  your  shame." 

IN  the  ages  gone  by,  when  Virginia  arose 
Her  honor  and  truth  to  maintain, 

Her  sons  round  her  banner  would  rally  with  pride, 
Determined  to  save  it  from  stain. 

No  heart  in  those  days  was  so  false  or  so  cold 

That  it  did  not  exquisitely  thrill 
With  a  love  and  devotion  that  none  would  with 
hold, 

Until  death  the  proud  bosom  should  chill. 

Was  Virginia  in  danger  ?  Fast,  fast  at  her  call, 
From  the  mountains  e'en  unto  the  sea, 

Came  up  her  brave  children  their  mother  to  shield, 
And  to  die  that  she  still  might  be  free. 

And  a  coward  was  he,  who,  when  danger's  dark 

cloud 

Overshadowed  Virginia's  fair  sky, 
Turned  a  deaf,  careless  ear,  when  her  summons 

was  heard, 

Or  refused  for  her  honor  to  die. 
4 


50     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Oh!  proud  are  the    mem'ries    of    days    that   are 

past, 

And  richly  the  heart  thrills  whene'er 
We    think   of  the    brave  who,    their    mother    to 

save, 
Have  died,  as  they  lived,  without  fear. 

But    now,  can  it  be  that  Virginia's  name 
Fails  to  waken  the  homage  and  love 

Of  e'en  one  of  her  sons  ?     Oh !  cold,  cold  must 

be 
The  heart  that  her  name  will  not  move. 

When  she   rallies    for    freedom,  for   justice,  and 

right, 

Will  her  sons,  with  a  withering  sneer, 
Revile    her,    and    taunt    her  with    treason    and 

shame, 
Or  say  she  is  moved  by  foul  fear  ? 

Will  they  tell  her  her  glories  have  fled  or  grown 
pale  ? 

That  she  bends  to  a  tyrant  in  shame  ? 
Will  they  trample  her  glorious  flag  in  the    dust, 

Or  load  with  reproaches  her  name? 


TO    THE    TORIES  OF   VIRGINIA.  51 

Will  they  fly  from  her  shores,   or  desert  her   in 
need  ? 

Will  Virginians  their  backs  ever  turn 
On  their  mother,  and  fly  when  the  danger  is  nigh, 

And  her  claim  to  their  fealty  spurn  ? 

False,  false  is  the  heart  that  refuses  to  yield 
The  love  that  Virginia  doth   claim  ; 

And  base  is  the  tongue  that  could  utter  the  lie, 
That  charges  his  mother  with  shame. 

A  blot  on  her  'scutcheon !  a  stain  on  her  name  ! 

Our  heart's  blood  should  wipe  it  away  ; 
We  should  die  for  her  honor,  and  count  it  a  boon 

Her  mandates  to  heed  and  obey. 

But  never,  oh,  never,  let  human  tongue  say 
She  is  false  to  her  honor  or  fame  ! 

She  is  true  to  her  past — to  her  future  she's  true — 
And  Virginia  has  never  known  shame. 

Then  shame  on  the  dastard,  the  recreant  fool, 
That  would  strike,  in  the  dark,  at  her  now ; 

That  would  coldly  refuse  her  fair  fame  to  uphold, 
That  would  basely  prove  false  to  his  vow. 


52     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

But  no  !  it  can  not — it  can  never  be  true, 
That  Virginia  claims  one  single  child, 

That  would  ever  prove  false  to  his  home  or  his 

God, 
Or  be  with  foul  treason  defiled. 

And  the  man  that  could  succor  her  enemies  now, 
Even  though  on  her  soil  he  were  born, 

Is  so  base,  so  inhuman,  so  false  and  so  vile, 
That  Virginia  disowns  him  with  scorn  ! 

Richmond  Examiner. 


WAR   SONG. 

BY    A.    B.    MEEK,    OF    MOBILE. 

WOULDST  thou  have  me  love  thee,  dearest, 

With  a  woman's  proudest  heart, 
Which  shall  ever  hold  thee  nearest, 

Shrined  in  its  inmost  heart? 
Listen,  then !     My  country's  calling 

On  her  sons  to  meet  the  foe  ! 
Leave  these  groves  of  rose  and  myrtle, 

Drop  the  dreamy  hand  of  love ! 
Like  young  Korner,   scorn  the  turtle 

When  the  eagle  screams  above  ! 


WAR  SONG.  53 

Dost   tbou  pause?     Let  dotards  dally — 

Do  thou  for  thy  country  fight ! 
'Neath  her  noble  emblem  rally — 

"  God  !  our  country,  and  her  right !  " 
Listen  !  now  her  trumpet's  calling 

On  her  sons  to  meet  the  foe  ! 
Woman's  heart  is  soft  and  tender, 

But  'tis  proud  and  faithful,  too  ; 
Shall  she  be  her  land's  defender? 

Lover  !  soldier  ?  up  and  do  ! 

Seize  thy  father's  ancient  falchion, 

Which  once  flashed  as  freedom's  star  ! 
Till  sweet  peace — the  bow  and  halcyon, 

Still'd  the  stormy  strife  of  war  ! 
Listen  !  now  thy  country's  calling 

On  her  sons  to  meet  the  foe  ! 
Sweet  is  love  in  moonlight  bowers  ! 

Sweet  the  altar  and  the  flame! 
Sweet  is  spring-time  with  her  flowers  ! 

Sweeter  far  the  patriot's  name  ! 

Should  the  God  who  rules  above  thee 
Doom  thee  to  a  soldier's  grave, 

Hearts  will  break,  but  fame  will  love  thee, 
Canonized  among  the  brave  ! 


54     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Listen,    then,  thy  country's  calling 
On  her  sons  to  meet  the  foe  ! 

Rather  would  I  view  thee  lying 
On  the  last  red  field  of  life, 

'Mid  thy  country's  heroes  dying, 
Than  to  be  a  dastard's  wife. 


SUMTER;   A   BALLAD    OF    1861. 

BY    E.    O.    MURDEN. 

TWAS  on  the  twelfth  of  April, 

Before  the  break  of  day, 
We  heard  the   guns  of  Moultrie 

Give  signal  for  the  fray. 

Anon  across  the  waters 

There  boomed  the  answering  gun, 
From  North  and  South  came  flash  on  flash- 

The  battle  had  begun. 

The  mortars  belched  their  deadly  food, 
And  spiteful  whizzed  the  balls, 

A  fearful  storm  of  iron  hailed 
On  Sumter's  doomed  walls. 


SUMTER;  A   BALLAD   OF  1861.  55 

We  watched  the  meteor  flight  of  shell, 

And  saw  the  lightning  flash ; 
Saw  where  each  fiery  missile  fell, 

And  heard  the  sullen  crash. 

The  morn  was  dark  and  cloudy, 

Yet,  till  the  sun  arose, 
No  answer  to  our  gallant  boys 

Came  booming  from  our  foes. 

Then  through  the  dark  and  murky  clouds 

The  morning  sunlight  came, 
And  forth  from  Sumter's  frowning  walls 

Burst  sudden  sheets  of  flame. 

The  shot  and  shell  flew  thick  and  fast, 

The  war-dogs  howling  spoke, 
And  thundering  came  their  angry  roar, 

Through  wreathing  clouds  of  smoke. 

Again  to  fight  for  liberty, 

Our  gallant  sons  had  come, 
They  smiled  when  came  the  bugle  call, 

And  laughed  when  tapped  the  drum. 


$6     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

From  cotton-  and  from  corn-field, 

From  desk  and  forum  too, 
From  work-bench  and  from  anvil,  came 

Our  gallant  boys  and  true. 

A  hireling  band  had  come  to  awe, 

Our  chains  to  rivet  fast ; 
Yon  lofty  pile  scowls  on  our  homes, 

Seaward  the  hostile  mast. 

But  gallant  freemen  man  our  guns — 

No  mercenary  host, 
Who  barter  for  their  honor's  price, 

And  of  their  baseness  boast. 

Now  came  our  stately  matrons, 

And  maidens  too  by  scores  ; 
Oh  !  Carolina's  beauty  shone 

Like  love-lights  on  her  shores. 

See  yonder,  anxious  gazing, 

Alone  a  matron  stands, 
The.  tear-drop  glistening  on  each  lid, 

And  tightly  clasped  her  hands. 


SUMTER;  A   BALLAD   OF  1861.  $7 

For  there,  exposed  to  deadly  fire, 

Her  husband  and  her  son — 
"  Father/'  she  spake,  and  heavenward  looked, 

"  Father,  thy  will  be  done." 

See  yonder  group  of  maidens, 

No  joyous  laughter  now, 
For  cares  lie  heavy  on  each  heart 

And  cloud  each  anxious  brow : 

For  brothers  dear,  and  lovers  fond, 

Are  there  amid  the  strife  ; 
Tearful  the  sister's  anxious  gaze — 

Pallid  the  promised  wife. 

Yet  breathed  no  heart  one  thought  of  fear, 

Prompt  at  their  country's  call, 
They  yielded  forth  their  dearest  hopes, 

And  gave  to  honor  all ! 

Now  comes  a  message  from  below — 

Oh  quick  the  tidings  tell — 
"At  Moultrie  and  Fort  Johnson,  too, 

And  Morris,  all  are  well ! " 


5     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Then  mark  the  joyous  brightening; 

See  how  each  bosom  swells  ; 
That  friends  and  loved  ones  all  are  safe, 

Each  to  the  other  tells. 

All  day  the  shot  flew  thick  and  fast, 

All  night  the  cannon  roared, 
While  wreathed  in  smoke  stern  Sumter  stood, 

And  vengeful  answer  poured. 

Again  the  sun  rose,  bright  and  clear, 

'Twas  on  the  thirteenth  day, 
While,  lo  !  at  prudent  distance  moored 

Five  hostile  vessels  lay. 

With  choicest  abolition  crews — 

The  bravest  of  their  brave — 
They'd  come  to  pull  our  Crescent  down 

And  dig  Secession's  grave. 

See,  see,  how  Sumter's  banner  trails, 

They're  signaling  for  aid, 
See  you  no  boats  of  armed  men? 

Is  yet  no  movement  made  ? 


SUMTER ;  A   BALLAD   OF  1861.  59 

Now  densest  smoke  and  lurid  flames 

Burst  out  o'er  Sumter's  walls ; 
"The  fort's  on  fire,"  's  the  cry; 

Again  for  aid  he  calls. 

See  you  no  boats  or  vessels  yet  ? 

Dare  they  not  risk  one  shot, 
To  make  report  grandiloquent 

Of  aid  they  rendered  not  ? 

Nor  boat  nor  vessel  leaves  the  fleet — 

"  Let  the  old  Major  burn" — 
We'll  boast  of  that  we  would  have  done, 

If  but — on  our  return. 

Go  back,  go  back  ye  cravens, 

Go  back  the  way  ye  came ; 
Ye  gallant,  would  be,  men-of-war, 

Go  !  to  your  country's  shame. 

'Mid  fiery  storm  of  shot  and  shell, 

'Mid  smoke  and  roaring  flame, 
See  how  Kentucky's  gallant  son 

Does  honor  to  her  name  ! 


60     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

See  how  he  answers  gun  for  gun — 

Hurrah  !  his  flag  is  down  ! 
The  white  !  the  white !     Oh  see  it  wave ! 

Is  echoed  all  around. 

Now  ring  the  bells  a  joyous  peal, 
And  rend  with  shouts  the  air, 

We've  torn  the  hated  banner  down, 
And  placed  the  Crescent  there. 

All  honor  to  our  gallant  boys, 
Bring  forth  the  roll  of  fame, 

And  there  in  glowing  lines  inscribe 
Each  patriot  hero's  name. 

Spread,   spread  the  tidings  far  and  wide, 

Ye  winds  take  up  the  cry  : 
"  Our  soil's  redeemed  from  hateful  yoke, 

We'll  keep  it  pure  or  die." 


REBELS.  6 1 

REBELS. 

REBELS  !  'tis  a  holy  name  ! 

The  name  our  fathers  bore, 
When  battling  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Against  the  tyrant  in  his  might, 

In  the  dark  days  of  yore. 

Rebels  !   'tis  our  family   name  ! 

Our  father,  Washington, 
Was  the  arch-rebel  in  the  fight, 
And  gave  the  name  to  us — a  right 

Of  father  unto  son. 

Rebels  !  'tis  our   given  name  ! 

Our  mother,    Liberty, 
Received  the  title  with  her  fame, 
In  days  of  grief,   of  fear,  and  shame, 

When  at  her  breast  were  we. 

Rebels  !   'tis   our  sealed  name  ! 

A  baptism   of  blood  ! 
The  war — aye,   and  the  din  of  strife — 
The   fearful  contest,   life  for  life— 

The  mingled  crimson  flood. 


62     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Rebels !  'tis  a  patriot's  name  ! 

In  struggles  it  was  given  ; 
We  bore  it  then  when  tyrants  raved, 
And  through  their  curses  'twas  engraved 

On  the  doomsday-book  of  heaven. 

Rebels  !   'tis  our  fighting  name  ! 

For  peace  rules  o'er  the  land, 
Until  they  speak  of  craven  woe — 
Until  our  rights  receive  a  blow, 

From  foe's  or  brother's  hand. 

Rebels  !  'tis  our  dying  name ! 

For,  although  life  is   dear, 
Yet,  freemen  born  and  freemen  bred, 
We'd  rather  live  as  freemen  dead, 

Than  live  in  slavish  fear. 

Then  call  us  rebels,  if  you  will — 

We  glory  in  the  name-, 
For  bending  under  unjust  laws, 
And  swearing  faith  to  an  unjust  cause, 

We  count  a  greater  shame. 

Atlanta  Confederacy. 


THE  HEART  OF  LOUISIANA.  63 

THE   HEART   OF   LOUISIANA. 

BY    HARRIET    STANTON. 

OH!  let  me  weep,   while  o'er  our  land 
Vile  discord  strides,  with  sullen  brow, 

And  drags  to  earth,  with  ruthless  hand, 
The  flag  no  tyrant's  power  could  bow ! 

Trailed  in  the  dust,  inglorious  laid, 
While  one  by  one  her  stars    retire, 

And  pride  and   power  pursue  the   raid, 
That  bids  our  liberty  expire. 

Aye,  let  me  weep!  for  surely   Heaven 
In  anger  views  the  unholy  strife ; 

And  angels  weep  that  thus  is  riven 
The  tie  that  gave  to  Freedom   life. 

I  can   not  shout — I  will  not  sing 
Loud  paeans  o'er  a   severed  tie  ; 

And,  draped  in  woe,   in  tears  I  fling 
Our  State's  new  flag  to  greet  the  sky. 

I  can  but  choose,   while  senseless  zeal 
And  lawless  hate  are  clothed  with   power, 

The  bitter  cup;  but  still  I  feel 
The  sadness  of  this  parting  hour  ! 


64     SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

I  know  that  thousand  hearts  will  bleed 
While  loud  huzzas  the  welkin  rend  ; 

The  thoughtless  crowd  will  shout,  Secede  ! 
But  ah !  will  this  the  conflict  end  ? 

Oh  !  let  me  weep  and  prostrate  lie 
Low  at  the  footstool  of  my  God ; 

I  can  not  breathe  one  note  of  joy, 
While  yet  I  feel  His  chastening  rod. 

Sure,  we  have  as  a  nation  sinned — 
Let  every  heart  its  folly  own, 

And  sackcloth,  as  a  girdle,  bind, 

And  mourn  our  glorious  Union  gone  ! 

Sisters,  farewell !  You  know  not  half 
The  pain  your  pride,  injustice,  give  ; 

You  spurn  our  cause,  and  lightly  laugh, 
And  hope  no  more  the  wrong  shall  live. 
New  Orleans  Delta. 


SOUTHERN  SONG  OF  FREEDOM.          65 
SOUTHERN   SONG   OF   FREEDOM. 

AIR— "  The  Minstrel's  Return." 

A   NATION  has  sprung  into  life 

Beneath  the  bright  Cross  of  the  South  ; 
And  now  a  loud  call  to  the  strife 

Rings  out  from  the  shrill  bugle's  mouth. 
They  gather  from  morass  and  mountain, 

They  gather  from  prairie  and  mart, 
To  drink,  at  young  Liberty's  fountain, 
The  nectar  that  kindles  the  heart. 

Then,  hail  to  the  land  of  the  pine  ! 
The  home  of  the  noble  and  free; 
A  palmetto  wreath  we'll  entwine 
Round  the  altar  of  young  Liberty  ! 

Our  flag,  with ,  its  cluster  of  stars, 

Firm  fixed  in  a  field  of  pure  blue, 
All  shining  through  red  and  white  bars, 

Now  gallantly  flutters  in  view. 
The  stalwart  and  brave  round  it  rally, 
They  press  to  their  lips  every  fold, 
While  the  hymn  swells  from  hill  and  from  valley, 
"  Be,  God,  with  our  Volunteers  bold." 

Then,  hail  to  the  land  of  the  pine !  etc. 


66     SO.VGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

The  invaders  rush  down  from  the  North, 

Our  borders  are  black  with  their  hordes  ; 
Like  wolves  for  their  victims  they  flock, 

While  whetting  their  knives  and  their  swords. 
Their  watchword  is  "Booty  and  Beauty," 

Their  aim  is  to  steal  as  they  go  ; 
But  Southrons  act  up  to  your  duty, 

And  lay  the  foul  miscreants  low. 

Then,  hail  to  the  land  of  the  pine  !  etc. 

The  God  of  our  fathers  looks  down 
And  blesses  the  cause  of  the  just  ; 
His  smile  will  the  patriot  crown 

Who  tramples  his  chains  in  the  dust. 
March,  march  Southrons  !  shoulder  to  shoulder, 

One  heart-throb,  one  shout  for  the  cause  ; 
Remember — the  world's  a  beholder, 

And  your  bayonets  are  fixed  at  your  doors  ! 
Then,  hail  to  the  land  of  the  pine  ! 
The  home  of  the  noble  and  free  ; 
A  palmetto  wreath  we'll  entwine 
Round  the  altar  of  young  Liberty. 

J.  H.  H. 


THERE'S  NOTHING  GOING    WRONG.       67 
THERE'S   NOTHING   GOING   WRONG. 

Dedicated  to  "  Old  Abe" 

THERE'S  a  general  alarm, 

The  South 's  begun  to  arm, 

And  every  hill  and  glen 

Pours  forth  its  warrior  men  ; 

Yet,  "  There's  nothing  going  wrong," 

Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

Six  States  already  out, 

Beckon  others  on  the  route; 

And  the  cry  is  "  Still  they  come !  " 

From  the  Southern  sunny  home  ; 

Yet,  "There's  nothing  going  wrong," 

Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

There's  a  wail  in  the  land, 

From  a  want-stricken  band  ; 

And  "  Food  !  Food  !  "  is  the  cry  : 

"  Give  us  work  or  we  die  ! " 

Yet,  "There's  nothing  going  wrong," 

Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

lain 


j          «_> 

The  sturdy  farmer  doth  complai 
Of  low  prices  for  his  grain  ; 


68     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

And  the  miller,  with  his  flour, 
Murmurs  the  dullness  of  the  hour. 
Yet,  "  There's  nothing  going  wrong," 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

The  burly  butcher  in  the  mart, 
He,  too,  also  takes  his  part  ; 
And  the  merchant  in  his  store 
Hears  no  creaking  of  his  door. 
But,  "  There's  nothing  going  wrong," 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

Stagnation  is  everywhere  ; 

On  the  water,  in  the  air, 

In  the  shop,  in  the  forge, 

On  the  mount,  in  the  gorge  ; 

With  the  anvil,  with  the  loom, 

In  the  store  and  counting-room ; 

In   the  city,  in  the  town, 

With  Mr.   Smith,  with  Mr.  Brown  ! 

And  "yet  there's  nothing  wrong, 

Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

A.  M.  W. 
NEW  ORLEANS,  March  4,  1861. 


MARYLAND.  69 

MARYLAND. 

BY    JAMES   R.    RANDALL. 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland  ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of   Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  thy  wand'ring   son's  appeal, 

Maryland  ! 
My  mother  State  !  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland  ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland  !     My   Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland  ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland  ! 


70     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust  ; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, — 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 
Maryland  !  My  Maryland  ! 

Come  !   'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland  ! 
Come  !  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland  ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood,  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe,  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland ! 

Come!  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland  ! 

Come  !  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 
And  give  a  new  Key  to  thy  song, 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland  ! 

Dear  Mother  !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 


MARYLAND.  7 1 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain  : 
"  Sic  semper"  'tis  the  proud  refrain, 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland  ! 
Arise,  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland  ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek — 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland  !   My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland  ! 


72     SOA'GS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland  ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb : 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes — she  burns  !  she'll  come  !  she'll 

come ! 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland  ! 
POINTE  COUPEE,  April  26,  1861. 


A   CRY    TO    ARMS. 

BY    HENRY    TIMROD. 

Ho  !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side ! 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho  !  ye  who  by  the  chafing  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales  ! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade  ; 
Let  desk,  and  case,  and  counter  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade  ! 


A    CRY   TO  ARMS.  73 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands  ; 

And,  till  he  flies  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  hands, 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears  ! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain, 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain  ! 

Come,  with  the  weapons  at  your  call — 

With  musket,  pike,  or  knife  : 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 

Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought  blows, 

With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose, 

Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn  ! 

Does  any  falter  ?     Let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies. 
Oh  !  could  you  like  your  women  feel, 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch. 


74     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

What  hope,  O  God!  would  not  grow. warm, 

When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 
The  Lily  calmly  braves  the  storm, 

And  shall  the   Palm-tree  fear  ? 
No  !  rather  let  its  branches  court 

The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain, 
And  from  the  Lily's  regal  port 

Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain ! 

Ho  !   woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  ! 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho  !  ye  who  by  the  roaring  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales  ! 
Come  !  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake  ; 
We  battle  for  our  Country's  right, 

And  for  the  Lily's  sake  ! 
NEW  ORLEANS,  March  9,  1862. 


WAR   SOATG.  75 

WAR  SONG.* 

AlR—"MarcA,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale" 

MARCH,  march  on,  brave  "  PALMETTO  "  boys, 
"  SUMTER  "  and  "  LAFAYETTES  "  forward  in  or 
der; 

March,  march,  "  CALHOUN  "  and  "  RIFLE  "  boys, 
All  the  base  Yankees  are  crossing  the  border. 
Banners  are  round  ye  spread, 
Floating  above  your  head, 
Soon  shall  the  Lone  Star  be  famous  in  story, 
On,  on,  my  gallant  men, 
Vict'ry  be  thine  again  ; 

Fight  for  your  rights,  till  the  green  sod  is  gory. 

March,  march,  etc. 

Young  wives  and  sisters  have  buckled  your  armor 

on  ; 

Maidens  ye  love  bid  ye  go  to  the  battle-field  ; 
Strong  arms  and  stout  hearts  have  many  a  vict'ry 

won, 
Courage  shall  strengthen  the  weapons  ye  wield. 

*  The  writer  has  a  husband,  three  sons,  two  nephews, 
other  relatives  and  friends,  in  the  companies  mentioned, 
to  whom  these  lines  are  most  respectfully  inscribed. — 
Charleston  Mercury. 


76     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Wild  passions  are  storming, 

Dark  schemes  are  forming, 
Deep  snares  are  laid,  but  they  shall  not  enthrall 

ye; 

Justice  your  cause  shall  greet, 

Laurels  lay  at  your  feet, 
If  each  brave  band  be  watchful  and  wary. 

March,  march,  etc. 

Let  fear  and  unmanliness  vanish  before  ye  ; 
Trust  in  the  Rock  who  will  shelter  the  right 
eous  ; 

Plant  firmly  each  step  on  the  soil  of  the  free — 
A  heritage  left  by  the  sires  who  bled  for  us. 
May  each  heart  be  bounding, 
When  trumpets  are  sounding, 
And  the  dark  traitors  shall  strive  to  surround 
ye;  , 

The  great  God  of  Battle 
Can  still  the  war-rattle, 

And  brighten  the  land  with  a  sunset  of  glory. 

March,  march,  etc. 


VIRGINIA— LATE  BUT  SURE.  77 

VIRGINIA— LATE   BUT   SURE! 

BY    W.    H.    HOLCOMBE. 

THE  foe  has  hemmed  us  round :  we  stand  at  bay, 
Here  we  will  perish,  or  be  free  to-day  ! 
To  drum  and  bugle  sternly  sounding, 
The  Southern  soldier's  heart  is  bounding  ; 
But  stay — oh  stay!     Virginia  is  not  here! 
Hush  your  strains  of  martial  cheer  ; 
O  bugle,  peace ! 
O  war-drum,  cease ! 
Virginia  is  not  here  ! 
Suspend,  O  chief,  your  word  of  fight ! 
She  will  be  soon  in  sight ! 

Her  children  never  called  in  vain  I" 

She  comes  not — comes  not :  the  disgrace 
Were  bitterer  than  the  tyrant's  chain ! 
Oh,  death !  we  dare  thee  face  to  face  ! 

A  gun !  the  foe's  defiant  shot — be  still ! 

Hurrah  !  an  answering  gun  behind  the  hill ; 
And  o'er  its  summit  wildly  streaming 
The  squadrons  of  Virginia  gleaming !  * 

*  Virginia  adopted  her  act  of  Secession  on  April  17,  1861. 


78      SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  the  Old  Dominion  comes ! 
Blow  your  bugles !  beat  your  drums ! 
O  doubt  accurst! 
The  last  is  first— 
The  Old  Dominion  comes ! 
She  grasps  her  thunderbolts  of  war  ; 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Now  loose,  O  chief !  your  battle  storm  ! 

We  hang  impatient  on  your  breath  ; 
Here  in  the  flashing  front  we  form ! 
Virginia ! — victory  or  death  ! 


SOUTHERN   SENTIMENT. 

BY    REV.    A.    M.    BOX. 

THE  North  may  think  that  the  South  will  yield, 
And  seek  for  a  place  in  the  Union  again ; 

But  never  will  Southrons  abandon  the  field 
And  place  themselves  under  tyrannical  reign. 

Sooner  by  far  would  we  yield  to  the  grave, 
Than  form  an  alliance  with  so  hated  a  foe; 

To  join  the  "  old  Union  "  would  be  to  enslave 
Ourselves,  our  children,  in  want  and  in  woe! 


SOUTHERN  SENTIMENT.  79 

What!  sons  of  the  South  !  submit  to  be  ruled 
By    the    minions    of    Abraham    Lincoln,    the 
fool  ? 

Our  fair  ones  insulted — our  wealth  all  controlled 
By  Yankees,  free  negroes,  and  every  such  tool ! 

Heaven  forbid  it  !  and  arm  us  with  might, 
To   drive  back  our  foes,   and   grind   them  to 
dust ! 

In  every  conflict  may  we  put  them  to  flight, 
Aided  by  thee,  thou  God  of  the  just ! 

Our  bosoms  we'll  bare  to  the  glorious  strife, 
And  our  oath  is  recorded  on  high, 

To  prevail  in  the  cause  is  dearer  than  life, 
Or  crushed  in  its  ruins  to  die  ! 

The  battle  is  not  to  the  strong  we  know, 
But  to  the  just,  the  true,  and  the  brave — 

With  faith  in  our  GOD,  right  onward  we'll  go, 
Our  country,  our  loved  ones,  to  save. 


8O     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE   SOUTHRON'S  WAR-SONG. 

BY    J.    A.    WAGENER. 

ARISE  !  arise  !  with  main  and  might, 

Sons  of  the  sunny  clime  ! 
Gird  on  the  sword;  the  sacred  fight 

The  holy  hour  doth  chime. 
Arise  !  the  craven  host  draws  nigh, 

In  thundering  array  ; 
Arise,  ye  brave  !  let  cowards  fly — 

The  hero  bides  the  fray. 

Strike  hard,  strike  hard,  thou  noble  band; 

Strike  hard,  with  arm  of  fire  ! 
Strike  hard,  for  God  and  fatherland, 

For  mother,  wife,  and  sire  ! 
Let  thunders  roar,  the  lightning  flash  ; 

Bold  Southron,  never  fear  ! 
The  bayonet's  point,  the  saber's  clash, 

True  Southrons  do  and  dare  ! 

Bright  flow'rs  spring  from  the  hero's  grave  ; 

The  craven  knows  no  rest ! 
Thrice  curs'd  the  traitor  and  the  knave  ! 

The  hero  thrice  is  bless'd. 


JUSTICE  IS  OUR  PANOPLY.  8 1 

Then  let  each  noble  Southron  stand, 

With  bold  and  manly  eye : 
We'll  do  for  God  and  fatherland ; 

We'll  do,  we'll  do,  or  die  ! 

Charleston  Courier. 


JUSTICE   IS   OUR   PANOPLY. 

BY   DE    G. 

WE'RE  free  from  Yankee  despots, 
We've  left  the  foul  mud-sills, 

Declared  for  e'er  our  freedom — 
We'll  keep  it  spite  of  ills. 

Bring  forth  your  scum  and  rowdies, 
Thieves,  vagabonds,  and  all ; 

March  down  your  Seventh  Regiment, 
Battalions  great  and  small. 

We'll  meet  you  in  Virginia, 

A  Southern  battle-field, 
Where  Southern  men  will  never 

To  Yankee  foemen  yield. 
6 


82      SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Equip  your  Lincoln  cavalry, 

Your  NEGRO  //^///-brigade, 
Your  hodmen,  bootblacks,  tinkers, 

And  scum  of  every  grade. 

Pretended  love  for  negroes 

Incites  you  to  the  strife  ; 
Well,  come  each  Yankee  white  man, 

And  take  a  negro  wife. 

You'd  make  fit  black  companions, 
Black  heart  joined  to  black  skin  ; 

Such  unions  would  be  glorious — 
They'd  make  the  Devil  grin. 

Our  freedom  is  our  panoply — 
Come  on,  you  base  to^-guards, 

We'll  snuff  you  like  wax-candles, 
Led  by  our  Beauregards. 

P.  G.  T.  B.  is  not  alone, 

/ 
Men  like  him  with  him  fight; 

God's  providence  is  o'er  us, 
He  will  protect  the  right. 


THE  BLUE   COCKADE.  83 

THE   BLUE   COCKADE. 

BY    MARY    WALSINGHAM    CREAN. 

GOD   be   with   the   laddie,    who   wears   the   blue 

cockade  ! 
He's  gone  to  fight  the  battles    of   our  darling 

Southern  land ; 
He  was  true  to  old    Columbia,  till   more  sacred 

ties  forbade — 
Till  'twere  treason  to  obey  her,  when  he  took 

his  sword  in  hand ; 
And  God  be  with  the  laddie,  who    was    true  in 

heart  and  hand, 
To  the  voice  of  old  Columbia,  till  she  wronged 

his  native  land  ! 

He  buckled  on  his  knapsack — his  musket  on  his 

breast — 
And  donned   the   plumed   bonnet — sword  and 

pistol  by  his  side  ; 
Then  his   weeping   mother   kissed   him,  and    his 

aged  father  bless'd, 

And  he  pinned  the  floating  ribbon  to  his  gal 
lant  plume  of  pride. 


84     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

And  God  be   with   the  ribbon,  and   the    floating 

plume  of  pride  ! 
They  have  gone  where  duty  called  them,  and  may 

glory  them  betide  ! 

He  would  not  soil  his  honor,  and  he  would  not 

strike  a  blow, 
For  he  loved  the  aged  Union,  and  he  breath'd 

no  taunting  word  ; 
He  would  dare  Columbia,  till  she  swore    herself 

his  foe — 
Forged    the     chains     for    freemen — when    he 

buckled  on  his  sword. 
And  God  be  with  the  freeman,  when  he  buckled 

on  his  sword  ! 
He  lives  or  dies  for  duty,  and  he  yields  no  inch 

of  sward. 

The  foes  they  come  with  thunder,  and  with  blood 

and  fire  arrayed, 
And  they  swear  that  we  shall  own  them — they 

the  masters,  we  the  slaves  ; 
But  there's  many  a  gallant  laddie,  who   wears  a 

blue  cockade, 

Will  show  them  what  it  is  to   dare   the  blood 
of  Southern  braves  ! 


THE  LEGION  OF  HONOR.  8$ 

And  God  be  with   the   banner   of  those    gallant 

Southern  braves  ! 
They  may  nobly  die  as  freemen — they  can  never 

live  as  slaves  ! 


THE   LEGION   OF   HONOR. 

BY    H.    L.    FLASH. 

WHY  are  we  forever  speaking 

Of  the  warriors  of  old  ? 
Men  are  fighting  all  around  us, 

Full  as  noble,  full  as  bold. 

Ever  working,  ever  striving, 

Mind  and  muscle,  heart  and  soul, 

With  the  reins  of  judgment  keeping 
Passions  under  full  control. 

Noble  hearts  are  beating  boldly 
As  they  ever  did  on  earth  ; 

Swordless  heroes  are  around  us, 
Striving  ever  from  their  birth. 


86     S02VGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Tearing  down  the  old  abuses, 

Building  up  the  purer  laws, 
Scattering  the  dust  of  ages, 

Searching  out  the  hidden  flaws. 

Acknowledging  no  "  right  divine  " 
In  kings  and  princes  from  the  rest; 

In  their  creed  he  is  the  noblest 
Who  has  worked  and  striven  best. 

Decorations  do  not  tempt  them — 
Diamond  stars  they  laugh  to  scorn — 

Each  will  wear  a  "Cross  of  Honor" 
On  the  Resurrection  morn. 

Warriors  they  in  fields  of  wisdom — 
Like  the  noble  Hebrew  youth, 

Striking  down  Goliath's  error 

With  the  God-blessed  stone  of  truth. 

Marshaled  'neath  the  Right's  broad  banner, 
Forward  rush  these  volunteers, 

Beating  olden  wrong  away 

From  the  fast  advancing  years. 


"WHAT   THE    VILLAGE  BELL   SAID."     8/ 

Contemporaries  do  not  see  them, 

But  the  coming  times  will  say 
(Speaking  of  the  slandered  present), 

"  There  were  heroes  in  that  day." 

Why  are  we  then  idly  lying 

On  the  roses  of  our  life, 
While  the  noble-hearted  struggle 

In  the  world  redeeming  strife. 

Let  us  rise  and  join  the  legion, 

Ever  foremost  in  the  fray — 
Battling  in  the  name  of  Progress 

For  the  nobler,  purer  day. 


"WHAT   THE   VILLAGE   BELL   SAID." 

BY  JOHN  M'LEMORE,  OF  s.  c. 

FULL  many  a  year  in  the  village  church, 

Above  the  world  have  I  made  my  home ; 
And  happier  there,  than  if  I  had  hung 
High  up  in  air  in  a  golden  dome  ; 
For  I  have  tolled 
When  the  slow  hearse  rolled 


88     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Its  burden  sad  to  my  door; 

And  each  echo  that  woke, 

With  the  solemn  stroke, 
Was  a  sigh  from  the  heart  of  the  poor. 

I  know  the  great  bell  of  the  city  spire 
Is  a  far  prouder  one  than  such  as  I  ; 
And  its  deafening  stroke,  compared  with  mine, 
Is  thunder  compared  with  a  sigh  ; 

But  the  shattering  note 

Of  his  brazen  throat, 
As  it  swells  on  the  Sabbath  air, 

Far  oftener  rings 

For  other  things 
Than  a  call  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

Brave  boy,  I  tolled  when  your  father  died, 

And  you  wept  when  my  tones  pealed  loud  ; 
And  more  gently  I  rung  when  the  lily-white  dame 
Your  mother  dear  lay  in  her  shroud  : 

And  I  rang  in  sweet  tone 

The  angels  might  own, 
When  your  sister  you  gave  to  your  friend  ; 

Oh  !  I  rang  with  delight, 

On  that  sweet  summer  night, 
When  they  vowed  they  would  love  to  the  end  ! 


"  WHAT   THE    VILLAGE  BELL   SAID."     89 

But  a  base  foe  comes  from  the  regions  of  crime, 
With  a  heart  all  hot  with  the  flames  of  hell  ; 
And  the  tones  of  the  bell  you  have  loved  so  long 
No  more  on  the  air  shall  swell : 

For  the  people's  chief, 

With  his  proud  belief 
That  his  country's  cause  is  God's  own, 

Would  change  the  song, 

The  hills  have  rung 
To  the  thunder's  harsher  tone. 

Then  take  me  down  from  the  village  church, 

Where  in  peace  so  long  I  have  hung ; 
But  I  charge  you,  by  all  the  loved  and  lost, 
Remember  the  songs  I  have  sung. 

Remember  the  mound 

Of  holy  ground 
Where  your  father  and  mother  lie 

And  swear  by  the  love 

For  the  dead  above 
To  beat  your  foul  foe,  or  die. 

Then  take  me  ;  but  when  (I  charge  you  this) 
You  have  come  to  the  bloody  field, 

That  the  bell  of  God,  to  a  cannon  grown, 
You  will  ne'er  to  the  foeman  yield. 


90      SONGS  OF    THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

By  the  love  of  the  past, 

Be  that  hour  your  last, 
When  the  foe  has  reached  this  trust ; 

And  make  him  a  bed 

Of  patriot  dead, 
And  let  him  sleep  in  this  holy  dust.* 


"WE   COME!   WE   COME!" 

BY    MILLIE    MAYFIELD.f 

WE  come  !  we  come  for  Death  or  Life, 

For  the  Grave  or  Victory ! 
We  come  to  the  broad  Red  Sea  of  strife, 

Where  the  black  flag  waveth  free ! 
We  come  as  Men,  to  do  or  die, 

Nor  feel  that  the  lot  is  hard, 
When  our  Hero  calls — and  our  battle-cry 

Is  "  On,  to  Beauregard  !  " 

*  The  author  of  this  song  was  mortally  wounded  at  the  bat 
tle  of  Seven  Pines. 

f  Dedicated  to  the  Crescent  Regiment,  of  New  Orleans, 
Col.  M.  J.  Smith. 


"  WE   COME!     WE   COME!11  9! 

Up,  craven,  up  !  'tis  no  time  for  ease, 

When  the  crimson  war-tide  rolls 
To  our  very  doors — up,  up,  for  these 

Are  times  to  try  men's  souls  ! 
The  purple  gore  calls  from  the  sod 

Of  our  martyred  brothers'  graves, 
And  raises  a  red  right  hand  to  God 

To  guard  our  avenging  braves. 

And  unto  the  last  bright  drop  that  thrills 

The  depths  of  the  Southern  heart, 
We  must  battle  for  our  sunny  hills, 

For  the  freedom  of  our  Mart — 
For  all  that  Honor  claims,  or  Right — 

For  Country,  Love,  and  Home ! 
Shout  to  the  trampling  steeds  of  Might 

Our  cry — "  We  come  !  we  come !  ° 

And  let  our  path  through  their  serried  ranks 

Be  the  fierce  tornado's  track, 
That  bursts  from  the  torrid's  fervid  banks 

And  scatters  destruction  black ! 
For  the  hot  life  leaping  in  the  veins 

Of  our  young  Confederacy, 
Must  break  for  aye  the  galling  chains 

Of  dark-browed  Treachery. 


92     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

On !  on  !  'tis  our  gallant  chieftain  calls 

(He  must  not  call  in  vain), 
For  aid  to  guard  his  homestead  walls — 

Our  Hero  of  the  Plain  ! 
We  come !  we  come,  to  do  or  die, 

Nor  feel  that  the  lot  is  hard  : 
"  God  and  our  Rights  !  "  be  our  battle  cry, 

And,  "  On,  to  Beauregard  !  " 


MANASSAS. 

BY    A    REBEL. 

UPON  our  country's  border  lay, 
Holding  the  ruthless  foe  at  bay, 
Through  chilly  night  and  burning  day, 
Our  army  at  Manassas. 

To  them  our  eager  eyes  were  turned, 
While  many  a  restless  spirit  burned, 
And  many  a  fond  heart  wildly  yearned, 
O'er  loved  ones  at  Manassas. 


MANASSAS.  93 

For  fast  the  Vandals  gathered,  strong 
In  wealth  and  numbers,  all  along 
Our  highways  pressed  a  countless  throng, 
To  battle  at  Manassas. 

With  martial  pomp  and  proud  array, 
With  burnished  arms  and  banners  gay, 
Panting  for  the  inhuman  fray, 

They  rolled  upon  Manassas. 

The  opening  cannons'  thunders  rent 
The  air,  and  ere  their  charge  was  spent, 
Muskets  and  rifles  quickly  sent 

Death  to  us  at  Manassas. 

But,  like  a  wall  of  granite,  stood 
The  true,  the  great,  the  brave,  the  good, 
Who,  firmly  holding  field  and  wood, 
Guarded  us  at  Manassas. 

They  promptly  answered  fire  with  fire  ; 
Danger  could  not  with  fear  inspire 
Their  hearts,  whose  courage  rose  the  higher, 
When  death  ruled  at  Manassas. 


94     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

At  dawn  the  murderous  work  begun ; 
The  battle  fiercely  raged  at  noon  ; 
Evening  drew  on — 'twas  not  done — 
The  carnage  at  Manassas. 

Oh,  trembling  Freedom  !  didst  thou  stay 
Throughout  that  agonizing  day, 
To  watch  where  victory  would  lay 
Her  laurels  at  Manassas  ? 

Yea!  and  thy  potent  trumpet  tone 
Ordered  our  gallant  warriors  on, 
To  the  bold  charge  which  for  thee  won 
The  triumph  at  Manassas. 

Well  might  the  dastard  foemen  yield, 

When  Right  and  Vengeance  joined  to  wield 

The  well-aimed  ball  and  glittering  steel, 

Which  hurled  them  from  Manassas. 

They  broke,  and  fear  lent  wings  to  feet 
Flying  before  our  chargers  fleet, 
Which  followed  up  their  wild  retreat — 
Their  mad  rout  at  Manassas. 


MANASAS.  95 

Strike !  Southrons,  strike !  for  ne'er  a  foe 
So  worthy  of  your  every  blow 
Can  your  good  swords  and  carbines  know, 
As  those  who  sought  Manassas. 

For  that  our  homes  are  still  secure, 
Our  wives  and  sisters  still  left  pure, 
Our  altars  drip  not  with  our  gore  ; 

Thanks,  victors  of  Manassas  ! 

Thy  charmed  trumpet  sound,  O  Fame  ! 
Let  music  catch  the  loud  refrain, 
While  in  a  glad,  triumphant  strain, 
We  celebrate  Manassas. 

And  every  soldier's  breast  shall  fire 
With  emulation,  and  desire 
To  equal — fame  can  point  no  higher — 
The  heroes  of  Manassas. 

Alas  !  that  many  writhe  in  pain, 
Whose  precious  blood  was  spilt  to  gain 
Glory  and  freedom  on  thy  plain — 

Thy  bloody  plain,   Manassas. 


6     SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

If  sympathy  can  aught  avail, 
If  fervent  prayers  with  Heaven  prevail, 
In  your  behalf  they  shall  not  fail, 
Poor  wounded  of  Manassas. 

Alas!  that  blended  with  the  tone 
Of  triumph,  breathes   the  stifled  moan 
For  many  brave,  whose  dear  lives  won 
The  victory  of  Manassas. 

A  grateful  nation  long  shall  keep 
Their  memory,  and  flock  to  weep 
Above  the  turf  where  softly  sleep 
The  martyrs  of  Manassas. 
HANOVER  Co.,  VA.,  July  30. 


CHIVALROUS    C.    S.   A. 


AIR — "  Vive  la  Compagniel" 

I'LL  sing  you  a  song  of  the  South's  sunny  clime, 

Chivalrous  C.  S.   A.  ! 
Which  went  to  house-keeping  once  on  a  time  ; 

Bully  for  C.    S.  A.  ! 


CHIVALROUS  C.    S.   A.  9/ 

Like  heroes  and  princes   they  lived  for  awhile, 

Chivalrous  C.   S.  A.  ! 
And  routed  the   Hessians  in  most  gallant  style  ; 

Bully  for  C.  S.  A.  ! 

Chorus — Chivalrous,  chivalrous  people  are  they ! 
Chivalrous,  chivalrous  people  are  they  ! 
In  C.   S.  A.  !     In  C.  S.   A. ! 
Aye,  in  chivalrous  C.  S.  A.  ! 

They  have  a  bold  leader — Jeff.  Davis  his  name — 

Chivalrous  C.  S.  A.  ! 
Good  generals  and  soldiers,  all  anxious  for  fame  ; 

Bully  for  C.  S.  A.  ! 
At  Manassas  they  met  the  North  in  its  pride, 

Chivalrous  C.  S.   A.  ! 
But  they  easily  put  McDowell  aside  ; 

Bully  for  C.   S.   A.  ! 
Chorus — Chivalrous,   chivalrous  people,   etc. 

Ministers  to  England   and  France,   it   appears, 
Have  gone  from  the  C.  S.   A.  ! 

Who've  given  the  North  many  fleas  in  its  ears  ; 
Bully  for  C.  S.   A.  ! 

Reminders  are  being  to   Washington  sent, 
By  the  chivalrous  C.   S.   A.! 
7 


98     SONGS  OF    THE    SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

That'll  force  Uncle  Abe  full  soon  to  repent ; 

Bully  for  C.  S.  A. ! 
Chorus — Chivalrous,  chivalrous  people,  etc. 

Oh,  they  have  the  finest  of  musical  ears, 

Chivalrous  C.  S.  A.  ! 

Yankee    Doodle's    too   vulgar    for   them,   it   ap 
pears  ; 

Bully  for  C.  S.  A. ! 
The  North  may  sing  it  and  whistle  it  still, 

Miserable  U.  S.  A.  ! 

Three  cheers  for  the  South  ! — now,  boys,  with  a 
will ! 

And  groans  for  the  U.  S.  A.  ! 
Chorus — Chivalrous,  chivalrous  people,  etc. 


THE   BATTLE-FIELD   OF   MANASSAS. 

BY   M.    F.    BIGNEY. 

FILL,  fill  the  trump  of  fame 
With  the  name — 

MANASSAS — the  battle-field  of  pride  ; 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD   OF  MAN  ASS  AS.     99 

Where  Freedom's  heroes  fought  with  their  spirits 

all  aflame, 
Where  the  Gospel  of  Liberty  was  sounded  with 

acclaim, 
Where  heroes  for  Liberty  have  died  ! 

Come,  Fancy,  once  again 

Fill  the  plain  with  armed  men ; 
Let   us   see   the  struggling  hosts  of  Wrong   and 
Right; 

Let  the  tide  of  battle  pour, 

Fight  and  conquer  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  we  glow  with  inspiration  at  the  sight. 

There's  glory  in  the  air  : 

Everywhere 
Glory  rises  from  the  ground, 

All  around. 

A  hundred  thousand  men, 
Gather  in  from  hill  and  glen, 
And  for  battle  fierce  and  bloody  they  are  bound. 

See,  see  the  cohorts  come, 
To  the  sound  of  fife  and  drum  ; 
They're  the  foemen  of  the  North 
Coming  forth, 


100  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

In  the  pride  of  conscious  might ; 
They  would  trample  down  the  Right, 
As  forth  they  come,  those  foemen  of  the  North. 

The  flag  which  they  bear 

Is  a  snare  : 

Its  Stripes  writhe  as  snakes  upon  the  air  ; 
And  its  Stars,  no  longer  bright, 
Tell  of  chaos  and  of  night, 
And  of  how  they  yet 
Will  set 
In  despair. 

On  comes  the  lengthening  line, 

As  if  eager  for  the  wine 
Which  from  the  press  of  battle  freely  flows  ; 

And  from  the  Southern  heart 

Such  wine  will  freely  start, 
As  the  pledge  to  each  hecatomb  of  foes. 

On  comes  the  lengthened  line, 

And  a  " higher  law"  divine  ; 
The  snakes  on  their  banners  seem  to  hiss ; 

"Destruction  to  the  South/' 

Bursts  in  hate  from  every  mouth, 
And  the  demon-words  are  held  akin  to  bliss. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD'  OF  "MANAMA?.  tOJ 

A  brave,  heroic  band, 

Hand  to  hand, 
To  meet  the  shock  of  battle  are  prepared  ; 

For  wife  and  child  they  stand — 

For  home  and  native  land  ; 
Oh,  pray  that  every  hero  may  be  spared  ! 

The  drum  and  fife  may  sound, 

But  their  stirring  notes  are  drowned 

In  the  roar  and  the  thunder  of  the  guns  ; 
The  death-charged  bullets  fly, 
And  the  shells  ascend  the  sky — 

They  are  offerings  to  God's  and  Freedom's  sons. 

Where  Freedom  nerves  the  arm, 

There's  a  charm; 
Where  Freedom  stirs  the  heart, 

Fears  depart. 
Oh,  sacred  is  the  strife, 
And  the  sacrifice  of  life, 
Where  Freedom's  chosen  heroes  point  the  dart. 

God  !  how  the  freemen  press ! 

There's  distress 
In  each  lead  and  iron  shower  that  they  send  ; 


.'I'D  2  SOAKS  Of   T&-E   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Their  countless  columns  pour, 
Like  the  waves  in  wild  uproar, 
Beating  on  a  rocky  shore 
They  would  rend. 

But  firm  as  rocks  our  band 

Grandly  stand — 
For  home  and  native  land 

Hand  to  hand. 

How  the  proud  invaders  reel, 
As  with  shot  and  shell  and  steel, 
Destruction  wide  we  deal, 

Sternly  grand ! 

Again,  and  yet  again, 
These  wild,  fanatic  men — 

Those  foemen  that  invade  our  Southern  homes- 
Still  rally  to  the  cry: 
"  We  must  conquer  here,  or  die  ! 

The  laurel,  or  the  fate  of  hellish  gnomes !  " 

Again,  and  yet  again, 

Southern  men 

Force  the  fierce  insulting  foe  to  retire. 
Again  the  Northmen  fall, 
And  to  Heaven  vainly  call, 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD   OF  MAN  ASS  AS.  1 03 

While  they  yell, 
"  There  is  hell 
In  Southern  fire  !  " 

Speed,  Beauregard  the  brave,  onward  speed ! 
Speed,  Davis  unto  Johnson,  in  his  need! 

Hurrah!  the  foemen  fly! 

Send  the  victor  shout  on  high, 
For  Heaven  still  rewards  the  daring  deed. 

How  fearfully  they  bleed — 

Man  and  steed ! 
Oh,  how  their  dying  prayer 

Rends  the  air! 
All  this  for  Northern  greed, 
All  that  strange,  fanatic  creed, 
Which  so  wickedly  they  heed. 

Do  not  spare  ! 

"  The  Southron  is  accurst  " — 

So  they  say  ; 
"  He's  baser  than  the  worst 

Beast  of  prey  ;  " 
And  the  African  is  white, 
In  those  Northern  foemen's  sight, 
As  the  lily,  when  it  greets  the  god  of  day. 


104  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Then  drive  them  to  their  lair ; 

Do  not  spare ! 
Let  shot  and  shell  reply 

To  their  cry. 

Though  their  bodies  taint  the  air, 
And  become  the  vulture's  fare, 
It  is  just  that  such  invading  hordes  should  die. 

McDowell,  in  the  van, 

Sees  his  beaten  columns  fly ! 
He  calls  on  God  and  man 

For  the  aid  that  both  deny  ; 
The  army  he  would  rally,  as  it  runs. 
Thus,  thus,  McDowell  raves : 
"  Know  ye  not,  ye  unworthy  knaves, 
That  you  fight  the  fight  for  slaves — 

Sable  ones  ; 

Come,  and  purchase  redder  graves 
With  your  guns." 

But  the  guns  are  thrown  away, 

The  invaders  will  not  stay ; 
To  them  a  fearful  lesson  has  been  read : 

For  miles  strewn  all  around, 

Encrimsoning  the  rich  ground, 
Lie  their  fallen  friends — the  wounded  and  the  dead. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD    OF  MANASSAS.   1 05 

The  sun  slopes  down  the  west, 

But  the  foe  in  wild  unrest 
Rushes  on,  though  destruction  follows  fast. 

The  Southern  cavalcade 

Dyes  with  red  each  trusty  blade, 
And  the  carnage  is  terrible  and  vast! 

Oh,  where  is  Scott,  the  chief? 

Why  brings  he  not  relief? 
And  Patterson,  the  tardy,  where  is  he? 

And  where  is  Abe,  the  Great, 

With  his  cap  and  cloak  of  state? 

He  should  see 
How  his  warriors  can  flee. 

Fear  lendeth  speed  to  flight, 

And  the  foe  invokes  the  night 
To  let  its  starless  curtain  quickly  fall ; 

But  it  falleth  all  too  slow, 

For  the  terrors  of  the  foe, 
And  it  seems  to  them  the  shadow  of  a  pall. 

A  Nemesis  concealed 
In  the  shades  of  wold  and  field, 
Breathes  of  vengeance  to  the  foemen  as  they  run ; 


106  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

They  are  rushing  in  despair, 
But  there's  carnage  everywhere, 
And  they  know  not  what  to  welcome  or  to  shun. 


Ten  thousand  of  their  slain 

Strew  the  plain ; 

The  shrieks  from  ten  thousand  more  arise  ; 
And  the  ghosts 
From  their  hosts 
Wail  despairingly  and  vain, 

In  their  pain, 
For  a  welcome  to  the  skies. 

At  morning,  in  their  pride, 

Side  by  side, 
They  went  forth  in  their  might 

To  the  fight; 

And  now  they  flee  in  fear, 
Trembling  like  the  stricken  deer, 
At  the  saber  and  the  spear — 

It  is  night. 


They  came  forth  to  destroy, 
With  a  fierce,  fanatic  joy, 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD   OF  MANASSAS.   IO/ 

And  boasted  of  the  Rebels  they  would  slay; 

But,  ere  the  set  of  sun, 

There  are  hundreds  chased  by  one, 
And    they  pray   their    legs   to    bear    them    safe 
away. 

For  miles  strewn  all  around 

O'er  the  ground, 
The  records  of  their  flight 

Meet  the  sight : 

Bodies  'neath  the  horses'  tread  ; 
Bodies  living ;  bodies  dead  ; 
And    the    swords    and    guns    most     beautifully 
bright! 

But  let  us  leave  the  foe 

In  their  woe. 

To  the  God  of  Peace  and  Battle  let  us  go. 
Let  us  praise  the  King  of  Kings, 
'Neath  whose  wide-expanded  wings 
There  is  shelter  for  his  children  here  below. 
His  arm,  unseen,  uprears 

Freedom's  spears  ; 
If  Freedom's  voice  be  weak, 

His  will  speak 


IOS  SO^VGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

In  the  cannon's  thunder  tones, 
Though  the  answer  be  in  groans, 
And  though  a  thousand  tyrant  hearts  may  break. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   HEART. 

BY    F.    P.    BEAUFORT. 

THE  trumpet  calls,  and  I  must  go 
To  meet  the  vile,  invading  foe  ; 
But  listen,  dearest,  ere  we  part — 
Thou  hast,  thou  hast  the  soldier's  heart ! 

It  could  not  be  so  true  to  thee 
Were  it  not  true  to  liberty; 
Far  rather  fill  a  soldier's  grave 
Than  live  a  dastard  and  a  slave  ! 

Thine  eyes  shall  light  dark  danger's  path, 
The  gloomy  camp,  the  foeman's  wrath  ; 
Above  the  battle's  fiery  storm, 
I  shall  behold  thy  beauteous  form  ! 


CONFEDERATE   SONG.  109 

With  thoughts  of  thee,  for  thy  dear  sake, 
Redoubled  efforts  I  will  make  ; 
And  strike  with  an  avenging  hand 
For  lady-love  and  native  land  ! 

Then  fare  thee  well,  the  trumpet's  sound 
Commands  me  to  the  battle  ground; 
But  listen,  dearest,  ere  we  part — 
Thou  hast,  thou  hast  the  soldier's  heart 


CONFEDERATE   SONG. 

A  i  R — ' '  JBruce's  Address. ' ' 

Written  for  and  dedicated  to  the  Kirk's  Ferry  Rangers, 
by  their  Captain,  E.  Lloyd  Wailes.  Sung  by  the  Glee  Club 
on  the  4th  of  July,  1861,  at  the  Kirk's  Ferry  barbecue 
(Catahoula,  La.),  after  the  presentation  of  a  flag,  by  the 
ladies,  to  the  Kirk's  Ferry  Rangers. 

RALLY  round  our  country's  flag ! 
Rally,  boys,  haste  !    do  not  lag ; 
Come  from  every  vale  and  crag, 
Sons  of  liberty  ! 


IIO  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Northern  Vandals  tread  our  soil, 
Forth  they  come  for  blood  and  spoil, 
To  the  homes  we've  gained  with  toil, 
Shouting,  " Slavery!" 

Traitorous  Lincoln's  bloody  band 
Now  invades  the  freeman's  land, 
Armed  with  sword  and  firebrand, 
'Gainst  the  brave  and  free. 

Arm  ye  then  for  fray  and  fight, 
March  ye  forth  both  day  and  night, 
Stop  not  till  the  foe's  in  sight, 
Sons  of  chivalry. 

In  your  veins  the  blood  still  flows 
Of  brave  men  who  once  arose — 
Burst  the  shackles  of  their  foes  ; 
Honest  men  and  free. 

Rise,  then,  in  your  power  and  might, 
Seek  the  spoiler,  brave  the  fight ; 
Strike  for  God,  for  Truth,  for  Right: 
Strike  for  Liberty  ! 


SOUTHERN  SONG.  Ill 


SOUTHERN   SONG. 

BY   M.    C.    FREER. 
TUNE—  "  Wait  for  the  Wagon." 

COME,  all  ye  sons  of  freedom, 

And  join  our  Southern  band, 
We  are  going  to  fight  the  Yankees, 

And  drive  them  from  our  land. 
Justice  is  our  motto, 

And  Providence  our  guide, 
So  jump  into  the  wagon, 
And  we'll  all  take  a  ride. 

Chorus — So  wait   for   the  wagon,    the 

dissolution  wagon  ; 

The  South  is  the  wagon,  and  we'll  all 
take  a  ride. 

Secession  is  our  watchword ; 

Our  rights  we  all  demand  ; 
To  defend  our  homes  and  firesides 

We  pledge  our  hearts  and  hands. 
Jeff.  Davis  is  our  President, 


112  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

With  Stephens  by  his  side; 
Great  Beauregard  our  General  ; 
He  joins  us  in  our  ride. 

Chorus — So  wait  for  the  wagon,  etc. 

Our  wagon  is  the  very  best; 

The  running  gear  is  good  ; 
Stuffed  round  the  sides  with  cotton, 

And  made  of  Southern  wood. 
Carolina  is  the  driver, 

With  Georgia  by  her  side  ; 
Virginia  holds  the  flag  up, 

While  we  all  take  a  ride. 

Chorus — So  wait  for  the  wagon,  etc. 

The  invading  tribe,  called  Yankees, 

With  Lincoln  for  their  guide, 
Tried  to  keep  Kentucky 

From  joining  in  the  ride  ; 
But  she  heeded  not  their  entreaties — 

She  has  come  into  the  ring ; 
She  wouldn't  fight  for  a  government 

Where  cotton  wasn't  king. 

Chorus — So  wait  for  the  wagon,  etc. 


SOUTHERN  SONG.  113 

Old  Lincoln  and  his  Congressmen, 

With  Seward  by  his  side, 
Put  old  Scott  in  the  wagon, 

Just  for  to  take  a  ride. 
McDowell  was  the  driver, 

To  cross  Bull  Run  he  tried, 
But  there  he  left  the  wagon 

For  Beauregard  to  ride. 

Chorus — So  wait  for  the  wagon,  etc. 

Manassas  was  the  battle-ground  ; 

The  field  was  fair  and  wide  ; 
The  Yankees  thought  they'd  whip  us  out, 

And  on  to  Richmond  ride  ; 
But  when  they  met  our  "  Dixie  "  boys, 

Their  danger  they  espied ; 
They  wheeled  about  for  Washington, 

And  didn't  wait  to  ride. 

Chorus — So  wait  for  the  wagon,  etc. 

Brave  Beauregard,  God  bless  him  ! 

Led  legions  in  his  stead, 
While  Johnson  seized  the  colors 

And  waved  them  o'er  his  head. 

8 


114  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

To  rising  generations, 

With  pleasure  we  will  tell 
How  bravely  our  Fisher 

And  gallant  Johnson  fell. 

Chorus — So  wait  for  the  wagon,  etc.* 


MY   WIFE   AND   CHILD. 

BY  GEN.  HENRY  R.  JACKSON,  OF  GEORGIA. 

THE  tattoo  beats,  the  lights  are  gone, 

The  camp  around  in  slumber  lies ; 
The  night  with  solemn  pace  moves  on, 

And  sad,  uneasy  thoughts  arise. 
I  think  of  thee,  oh,  dearest  one  ! 

Whose  love  my  early  life  has  blest ; 
Of  thee  and  him,   our  baby  son, 

Who  slumbers  on  thy  gentle  breast. 

*  These  verses  were  published,  early  in  1862,  in  the  Ral 
eigh  (N.  C.)  "  Register."  From  the  camp  of  the  Massachu 
setts  Twenty-Second  Regiment,  they  were  sent  as  a  part  of  a 
letter  to  the  "  Boston  Traveller,"  on  May  3ist,  of  the  same 
year,  and  printed  in  that  paper  on  the  6th  of  June. 


MY    WIFE  AND   CHILD.  11 

God  of  the  tender,  hover  near 

To  her  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet ; 
The  mother,  wife — the  doubly  dear — 

And  cheer  her  drooping  spirits  yet. 
Now,  while  she  kneels  before  thy  throne, 

Oh,  teach  her,  Ruler  of  the  Skies  ! 
No  tear  is  wept  to  thee  unknown, 

No  hair  is  lost,  no  sparrow  dies. 

That  thou  canst  stay  the  ruthless  hand 

Of  dark  disease,  and  soothe  its  pain; 
That  only  by  thy  stern  command 

The  battle's  lost,  the  soldier's  slain. 
By  day,  by  night — in  joy  or  woe — 

By  fear  oppressed,  or  hopes  beguiled, 
From  every  danger,  every  foe, 

Oh,  God  !  protect  my  wife  and  child  ! 


Il6  SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE   SOUTH    IS   UP. 

BY    P.    E.    C. 

THE  South  is  up  in  stern  array — 

Chasseurs  and  Zouaves  and  Gallic  Guard — 
Types  of  their  veteran  fathers  gray, 

Of  war-marked  visage,  saber-scarred — 
The  children  of  Marengo's  plains, 

Of  Austerlitz  and  Waterloo, 
When  tyrants  dare  to  speak  of  chains 

Well  do  as  their  brave  sires  would  do. 
The  sturdy  German,  hardy  Pole, 

Who  knows  how  Kosciusko  fell — 
The  Tyrolean,  who  feels  his  soul 

Fired  with  that  spark  which  gave  them  Tell. 

The  South  is  up  !     Italians  sons — 

A  Garibaldi  in  each  form — 
Their  hands  are  grasping  freemen's  guns, 

Their  bosoms  feel  his  valor  warm; 
Their  crimson  shirts,  in  bloody  fields, 

Like  walls  of  flame  shall  front  the  foeman  ; 
In  that  dread  hour  whoever  yields, 

'Tis  not  the  offspring  of  the  Roman  ; 


THE   SOUTH  IS   UP.  1 1/ 

No  renegade,  to  scorn  his  brother 
While  guarding  their  adopted  mother — 
One  feeling,  nationale  and  grand, 
Still  binds  them  to  their  native  land. 

The  South  is  up  !  those  brawny  hands 

That  bless  in  peace  or  crush  in  war, 
Who  fought  on  India's  burning  sands, 

At  Egypt's  Nile,  and  Trafalgar  ; 
That  reckless  mirth,  that  fiery  joy, 

On  field,  or  fort,  or  slippery  deck, 
From  Clontarf's  plains  to  Fontenoy, 

At  Quatre  Bras  or  old  Quebec  ; 
Magenta,  Malakoff,  Redan, 

Has  heard  their  Celtic   "  Clear  the  way  !  " 
The  slandered,  exiled  Irishman 

Stands  for  his  Southern  home  to-day  ; 
And  when,  perchance,  in  Death's  eclipse 

He  grasps  her  flag  with  'legiance  due, 
The  last  breath  lingering  on  his  lips 

Might  proudly  say,  I'm  Irish,   too ! 

The  South  is  up  !  her  native  sons, 
Whose  spirit  prompts  them  to  be  free, 

Spring  forth  to  man  their  trophied  guns, 
So  bravely  won  at  Monterey — 


Il8  SO NG S  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Surpassing  Buena  Vista's  deeds, 

Or  Palo  Alto's  feats  again, 
Though  wives  be  wreathed  in  widow's   weeds 

And  children  weep  for  fathers  slain. 
What !  think  to  bind  the  South  ?   Tis  vain  ! 

Freedom's  inheritors  at  birth, 
Not  all  the  leagued  infernal  train, 

If  they  were  mustered  here  on  earth, 
Those  flashing  eyes,  like  gleaming  steel, 

Those  hero  boys  and  veterans  gray  ! 
Oh,  yes  !  the  throbbing  heart  can  feel — 

The  South  is  up  in  stern  array. 

Yet  sad  'twill  grieve  the  Southern  heart 

To  meet  their  brethren  foot  to  foot, 
But  cancers  on  a  vital  part 

Must  now  be  severed  branch  and  root  ; 
They  share  with  us  a  blood-bought  fame 

From  foreign  foe  and  savage  grim ; 
The  memory  of  our  George's  name, 

Revered  by  us,  is  dear  to  them  ; 
Our  ships  in  every  clime  have  shown, 

Where  jealous  monarchies  might  see, 
What  stars  upon  our  flag  have  grown 

From  old   thirteen  to  thirty-three ; 


THE   OLD  RIFLEMAN.  1 1 9 

Soldier  to  lead,  or  sage  to  teach, 

Deep-scienced  minds,   of  knowledge  vast, 

The  great  one's  fame,   as  in  a  niche, 
Lives  in  the  history  of   the  past. 

Now,  pausing  o'er  our  doubtful  fate 
We  have  been,  or  we  shall  be,  great. 


THE   OLD   RIFLEMAN. 

BY   FRANK    TICKNOR,    M.    D. 

Now,  bring  me  out  my  buckskin   suit ! 

My  pouch  and  powder,  too ! 
We'll  see  if  seventy-six  can  shoot 

As  sixteen  used  to  do. 

Old  Bess  !  we've  kept  our  barrels  bright  ! 

Our  triggers  quick  and  true  ! 
As  far,  if  not  as  fine   a  sight, 

As  long  ago,  we  drew  ! 

And  pick  me  out  a  trusty  flint! 

A  real  white  and  blue  ; 
Perhaps  'twill  win  the  other  tint, 

Before  the  hunt  is  through  ! 


120  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Give  boys  your  brass  percussion-caps  ' 
Old  "  shut-pan "  suits  as  well ! 

There's  something  in  the  sparks;  perhaps 
There's  something  in  the  smell ! 

We've  seen  the  red-coat   Briton  bleed  ! 

The  red-skin   Indian,   too  ! 
We  never  thought  to  draw  a  bead 

On  Yankee-doodle-doo  ! 

But,   Bessie  !  bless  your  dear  old  heart  ! 

Those  days  are  mostly  done  ; 
And  now  we  must  revive  the  art 

Of  shooting  on  the  run  ! 

If  Doodle  must  be  meddling,   why, 

There's  only  this  to  do  : 
Select  the  black  spot  in  his  eye 

And  let  the  daylight  through  ! 

And  if  he  doesn't  like  the  way 
That   Bess  presents  the  view, 

He'll,  maybe,   change  his  mind  and   stay 
Where  the  good  Doodles  do  ! 


ONLY  ONE  KILLED.  121 

Where  Lincoln  lives.     The  man,  you  know, 

Who  kissed  the   Testament  ; 
To  keep  the  Constitution  ?     No  ! 

To  keep  the   Government! 

We'll  hunt  for  Lincoln,  Bess  !  old  tool, 

And  take  him  half  and  half; 
We'll  aim  to  hit  him,  if  a  fool, 

And  miss  him  if  a  calf ! 

We'll  teach  these  shot-gun  boys  the  tricks 

By  which  a  war  is  won  ; 
Especially  how  seventy-six 

Took  Tories  on  the  run. 


ONLY   ONE   KILLED. 

BY    JULIA    L.    KEYES. 

ONLY  one  killed  in  Company  B, 

'Twas  a  trifling  loss — one  man  ! 
A  charge  of  the  bold  and  dashing  Lee, 
While  merry  enough  it  was,  to  see 
The  enemy,  as  he  ran. 


122  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Only  one  killed  upon  our  side — 
Once  more  to  the  field  they  turn. 

Quietly  now  the  horsemen  ride, 

And  pause  by  the  form  of  the  one  who  died, 
So  bravely,  as  now  we  learn. 

Their  grief  for  the  comrade  loved  and  true 

For  a  time  was  unconcealed  ; 
They  saw  the  bullet  had  pierced  him  through  ; 
That  his  pain  was  brief — ah  !  very  few 

Die  thus  on  the  battle-field. 

The  news  has  gone  to  his  home,  afar — 

Of  the  short  and  gallant  fight  ; 
Of  the  noble  deeds  of  the  young  La  Var, 
Whose  life  went  out  as  a  falling  star 

In  the  skirmish  of  the  night. 

"  Only  one  killed  !     It  was  my  son," 

The  widowed  mother  cried ; 
She  turned  but  to  clasp  the  sinking  one, 
Who  heard  not  the  words  of  the  victory  won, 

But  of  him  who  had  bravely  died. 

Ah !  death  to  her  were  a  sweet  relief, 
The  bride  of  a  single  year. 


THE   WAR  CHRISTIAN'S  THANKSGIVING.  123 

Oh  !  would  she  might,  with  her  weight  of  grief, 
Lie  down  in  the  dust,  with   the   autumn  leaf, 
Now  trodden  and  brown  and  sere  ! 

But  no,  she  must  bear  through  coming  life 

Her  burden  of  silent  woe, 
The  aged  mother  and  youthful  wife 
Must  live  through  a  nation's  bloody  strife, 

Sighing  and  waiting  to  go. 

Where  the  loved  are  meeting  beyond  the  stars, 

Are  meeting  no  more  to  part, 
They  can  smile  once  more   through   the   crystal 

bars — 
Where  never  more  will  the  woe  of  wars 

O'ershadow  the  loving  heart. 


THE  WAR  CHRISTIAN'S  THANKSGIVING. 

Respectfully  dedicated  to  the  War  Clergy  of  the  United  States. 
BY    GEORGE    H.    MILES,    OF    BALTIMORE. 

OH,  God  of  battles  !  once  again, 
With  banner,  trump  and  drum, 

And  garments  in  thy  wine-press  dyed, 
To  give  Thee  thanks  we  come. 


124  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

No  goats  or  bullocks  garlanded, 

Unto  Thine  altars  go  ; 
With  brother's  blood,  by  brothers  shed, 

Our  glad  libations  flow. 

From  pest-house  and  from  dungeon  foul, 
Where,  maimed  and  torn,  they  die, 

From  gory  trench  and  charnel-house, 
Where,  heap  on  heap,  they  lie. 

In  every  groan  that  yields  a  soul, 
Each  shriek  a  heart  that  rends, 

With  every  breath  of  tainted  air, 
Our  homage,  Lord,  ascends. 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  saber's  gash, 

The  cannon's  havoc  wild ; 
We  bless  Thee  for  the  widow's  tears, 

The  want  that  starves  her  child ! 

We  give  Thee  praise  that  Thou  hast  lit 
The  torch  and  fanned  the  flame  ; 

That  lust  and  rapine  hunt  their  prey, 
Kind  Father,  in  Thy  name! 


THE   WAR  CHRISTIAN'S   THANKSGIVING.  12$ 

That  for  the  songs  of  idle  joy 

False  angels  sang  of  yore, 
Thou  sendest  war  on  earth — ill-will 

To  men  for  evermore  ! 

We  know  that  wisdom,  truth  and  right 

To  us  and  ours  are  given  ; 
That  Thou  hast  clothed  us  with  the  wrath, 

To  do  the  work  of  heaven. 

We  know  that  plains  and  cities  waste 

Are  pleasant  in  Thine  eyes — 
Thou  lov'st  a  hearthstone  desolate, 

Thou  lov'st  a  mourner's  cries. 

Let  not  our  weakness  fall  below 

The  measure  of  Thy  will, 
And  while  the  press  hath  wine  to  bleed, 

Oh,  tread  it  with  us  still ! 

Teach  us  to  hate — as  Jesus  taught 

Fond  fools,   of  yore,  to  love  ; 
Give  us  Thy  vengeance  as  our  own — 

Thy  pity,  hide  above  ! 


126   SOATGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Teach  us  to  turn,  with  reeking  hands, 

The  pages  of  Thy  word, 
And  learn  the  blessed  curses  there, 

On  them  that  sheathe  the  sword. 


Where'er  we  tread  may  deserts  spring, 

Till  none  are  left  to  slay  ; 
And  when  the  last  red-drop  is  shed, 

We'll  kneel  again — and  pray  ! 


UP!  UP!  LET  THE  STARS  OF  OUR 
BANNER. 

BY    M.    F.    BIGNEY. 
Respectfully  dedicated  to  the  Soldiers  of  the  South. 

UP  !  up  !  Let  the  stars  of  our  banner 
Flash  out  like  the  brilliants  above  ! 
Beneath  them  we'll  shield  from  dishonor 
The  homes  and  the  dear  ones  we  love. 
With  "God  and  our  Right!" 
Our  cry  in  the  fight, 


LET   THE  STARS  OF  OUR  BANNER. 

We'll  drive  the  invader  afar, 
And  we'll  carve  out  a  name 
In  the  temple  of  Fame 

With  the  weapons  of  glorious  war. 

Arise  with  an  earnest  endeavor — 
A  nation  shall  hallow  the  deed ; 

The  foe  must  be  silenced  forever, 
Though  millions  in  battle  may  bleed. 
With  "  God  and  our  Right !  "  etc. 

Strong  arms  and  a  conquerless   spirit 
We  bring  as  our  glory  and  guard  : 

If  courage  a  triumph  can  merit, 
Then  Freedom  shall  be  our  reward. 
With  "  God  and  our  Right  !  "  etc. 

Beneath  the  high  sanction  of  Heaven, 
We'll  fight  as  our  forefathers  fought ; 

Then  pray  that  to  us  may  be  given 
Such  guerdon  as  fell  to  their  lot. 

With  "  God  and  our  Right  !  "  etc. 


128  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE    SOLDIER   BOY. 

BY    H.    M.    L. 

I  GIVE  my  soldier  boy  a  blade, 

In  fair  Damascus  fashioned  well ; 
Who  first  the  glittering  falchion  swayed, 

Who  first  beneath  its  fury  fell, 
I  know  not  :  but  I  hope  to  know 

That  for  no  mean  or  hireling  trade, 
To  guard  no  feeling,  base  or  low, 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 

Cool,  calm,  and  clear,  the  lucid  flood, 

In  which  its  tempering  work  was  done  ; 
As  calm,  as   clear,  as  clear  of  mood 

Be  thou  whene'er  it  sees  the  sun  ; 
For  country's  claim,  at  honor's  call, 

For  outraged  friend,  insulted  maid, 
At  mercy's  voice  to  bid  it  fall, 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 

The  eye  which  marked  its  peerless  edge, 
The  hand  that  weighed  its  balanced  poise, 

Anvil  and  pincers,  forge  and  wedge, 

Are  gone  with  all  their  flame  and  noise  ; 


A    SOUTHERN  GATHERING  SONG.       129 

And  still  the  gleaming  sword  remains. 

So  when  in  dust  I  low  am  laid, 
Remember  by  these  heartfelt  strains, 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 
LYNCHBURG,  VA.,  May  18,  1861. 


A  SOUTHERN  GATHERING  SONG. 

BY    L.    VIRGINIA    FRENCH. 
AlR—"Hat't  Columbia."  * 

SONS  of  the  South,  beware  the  foe  ! 
Hark  to  the  murmur  deep  and  low, 
Rolling  up  like  the  coming  storm, 
Swelling  up  like  sounding  storm, 
Hoarse  as  the  hurricanes  that  brood 
In  space's  far  infinitude  ! 
Minute  guns  of  omen  boom 
Through  the  future's  folded  gloom  ; 

*  A  good  clergyman,  on  being  censured  for  introducing  a 
"  song  tune  "  into  his  choir  at  church,  replied  that  he  "  did 
not  think  it  fair  that  the  devil  should  have  all  the  good 
music."  In  like  manner,  we  will  never  give  up  "Hail  Co 
lumbia  "  to  the  Abolitionists.  It  is  ours ;  and  we  mean  to 
hold,  as  one  of  our  dearest  rights,  this,  the  grandest  march 
ever  composed  by  mortal  man. 

9 


130  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Sounds  prophetic  fill  the  air, 
Heed  the  warning — and  prepare  ! 
Watch  !  be  wary — every  hour 
Mark  the  foeman's  gathering  power — 
Keep  watch  and  ward  upon  his  track 
And  crush  the  rash  invader  back  ! 


Sons  of  the  brave  ! — a  barrier  stanch 
Breasting  the  alien  avalanche — 
Manning  the  battlements  of  RIGHT  ; 
Up,  for  your  Country,  "  God,  and  right ! ' 
Form  your  battalions  steadily, 
And  strike  for  death  or  victory  ! 
Surging  onward  sweeps  the  wave, 
Serried  columns  of  the  brave, 
Banded  'neath  the  benison 
Of  Freedom's  godlike  Washington  ! 
Stand  !  but  should  the  invading  foe 
Aspire  to  lay  your  altars  low, 
Charge  on  the  tyrant  ere  he  gain 
Your  iron  arteried  domain  ! 

Sons  of  the  brave  !  when  tumult  trod 
The  tide  of  revolution — God 


BATTLE-CALL.  131 

Looked   from   His   throne   on   "  the   things  of 

time," 

And  two  new  stars  in  the  reign  of  time 
He  bade  to  burn  in  the  azure  dome — 
The  freeman's  LOVE  and  the  freeman's  HOME  ! 
Holy  of  Holies  !  guard  them  well, 
Baffle  the  despot's   secret  spell, 
And  let  the  chords  of  life  be  riven 
Ere  you  yield  those  gifts  of  Heaven  ! 

lo  pczan  !  trumpet  notes 

Shake  the  air  where  our  banner  floats ; 

lo  triumphe !  still  we  see 

The  land  of  the  South  is  the  home  of  the  free  ! 


BATTLE-CALL. 

Nee  temere,  nee  timide. 

Dedicated  to  her  Countrymen,  the  Cavaliers  of  the  South, 
BY    ANNIE    CHAMBERS    KETCHUM. 

GENTLEMEN  of  the  South  ! 
t      Gird  on  your  flashing  swords  ! 
Darkly  along  your  borders  fair 
Gather  the  ruflian  hordes  ! 


132  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Ruthless  and  fierce  they  come  ; 

Even  at  the  cannon's  mouth 
To  blast  the  glory  of  your  land, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

Ride  forth  in  your  stately  pride, 

Each  bearing  on  his  shield 
Ensigns  your  fathers  won  of  yore 

On  many  a  well-fought  field. 
Let  this  be  your  battle-cry, 

Even  to  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Cor  unum  via  una  !  Onward  ! 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

Brave  knights  of  a  knightly  race, 

Gordon  and  Chambers  and  Gray, 
Show  to  the  minions  of  the  North 

How  valor  dares  the  fray! 
Let  them  read  on  each   spotless  crest, 

Even  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Decori  decus  addit  avito> 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

Morrison,   Douglas,  Stuart, 

Erskine  and  Bradford  and  West, 


BA  TTLE-CALL.  1 3  3 

Your  gauntlets  on  many  a  hill  and  plain 

Have  stood  the  battle's  test. 
Animo  non  astutia! 

March  to  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Heirs  of  the  brave  dead  centuries, 

Gentlemen  of  the   South  ! 


Call  out  your  stalwart  men, 

Workers  in  brass  and  steel, 
Bid  the  swart  artisans  come  forth 

At  sound  of  the  trumpet's  peal; 
Give  them  your  war-cry,  Erskine, 

Fight  to  the  cannon's  mouth- 
Bid  the  men  forward,  Douglas,  forward ! 

Yeomanry  of  the  South  ! 

Brave  hunters,  ye  have  met 

The  fierce  black  bear  in  the  fray, 
Ye  have  trailed  the  panther  night  by  night, 

Ye  have  chased  the  fox  by  day  ; 
Your  prancing  chargers  pant 

To  dash  at  the  gray  wolf's  mouth, 
Your  arms  are  sure  of  their  quarry — forward ! 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 


134  SONGS  OF    THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Fight !  that  the  lowly  serf 

And  the  high-born  lady,  still 
May  bide  in  their  proud  dependency, 

Free  subjects  of  your  will ; 
Teach  the  base  North  how  ill — 

At  the  belching  cannon's  mouth — 
He  fares  who  touches  your  household  gods, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

From  mother,  and  wife,  and  child, 

From  faithful  and  happy  slave, 
Prayers  for  your  sake  ascend  to  Him 

Whose  arm  is  strong  to  save. 
We  check  the  gathering  tears, 

Though  ye  go  to  the  cannon's  mouth  ; 
Dominus  providebit !  Onward  ! 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 
DUNROBIN  COTTAGE. 


THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG,  135 

THE   BONNIE   BLUE    FLAG. 

BY    HARRY    MACARTHY. 

WE  are  a  band  of  brothers,  and  natives    to   the 

soil, 

Fighting  for  the  property  we  gained  by  honest  toil, 
And  when  our   rights   were   threatened,  the   cry 

rose  near  and  far : 
Hurrah  for  the  bonnie  Blue    Flag   that    bears    a 

single  star  ! 
Chorus — Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for    the    bonnie    Blue 

Flag 
That  bears  a  single  star. 

As  long  as  the  Union  was  faithful  to  her  trust, 
Like  friends  and  like  brothers,  kind  were  we  and 

just  ; 
But  now  when  Northern  treachery  attempts  our 

rights  to  mar, 
We  hoist  on  high  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears 

a  single  star. 

First,    gallant    South    Carolina    nobly   made   the 

stand  ; 
Then  came  Alabama,  who  took  her  by  the  hand  ; 


136  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Next,  quickly,  Mississippi,  Georgia,  and  Florida — 
All  raised  the  flag,  the    bonnie    Blue    Flag    that 
bears  a  single  star. 

Ye  men  of  valor,  gather  round  the  banner  of  the 
right ; 

Texas  and  fair  Louisiana  join  us  in  the  fight. 

Davis,  our  loved  President,  and  Stephens,  states 
men  are  ; 

Now  rally  round  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears 
a  single  star. 

And  here's  to  brave  Virginia !  the  Old  Domin 
ion  State 

With  the  young  Confederacy  at  length  has  linked 
her  fate. 

Impelled  by  her  example,  now  other  States  prepare 

To  hoist  on  high  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears 
a  single  star. 

Then  here's  to  our  Confederacy ;  strong  we   are 

and  brave, 

Like  patriots  of  old  we'll  fight,  our  heritage  to  save  ; 
And    rather    than    submit    to    shame,  to    die    we 

would  prefer  ; 
So  cheer  for  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a 

single  star. 


THE  BATTLE  AT  BULL  RUN.          l$7 

Then  cheer,  boys,  cheer,  raise  the  joyous  shout, 
For  Arkansas  and  North  Carolina  now  have  both 

gone  out; 
And  let  another  rousing  cheer  for  Tennessee  be 

given, 
The  single   star    of   the    bonnie    Blue    Flag   has 

grown  to  be  eleven  ! 


THE   BATTLE   AT   BULL   RUN. 

BY   RUTH. 

FORWARD,  my  brave  columns,  forward  ! 

No  other  word  was  spoken ; 

But  in  the  quick  and  mighty  rustling  of  their  feet, 

And  in  the  flashing  of  their  eyes,  'twas  proved 

This  was  enough. 

Men,  whose  every  bosom  had  a  noble  heart, 

And  who  had  left  their  homes,  their  sacred  rights 

To  gain  :  To  these  this  was  no  trying  hour, 

No  time  to  waver,  and  to  doubt.     But  one, 

For  which  they'd  hoped  and  prayed — 

One  (as  they  felt)  they'd  brought  not  on 

Themselves,  but  which  they  knew  must  come — 


SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

And  nobly,  O  most  nobly,  did  their 
Bravery,  their  sense  of  right,  sustain  them. 

And  Lincoln's  hordes — 

They  knew  not  with  what  natures  they  contended, 

Seemed  not  to  feel  their  motives  differed,  as 

Does  heaven  from  earth. 

They,  the  poor,  miserable,  hired  outcasts,  whose 

Principles  were  bought, 

And  men,  whose  courage,  bravery,  and  noble  aims, 

Had  come  to  be,  throughout  the  land, 

A  proverb. 

And  what  the  end  ? 

What  could,  what  should  it  be,  than  what  it  was  ? 

A  brilliant,  glorious  VICTORY. 

The  South  weeps  o'er  her  slain  : 

And  well  she  may;  for  they  were  jewels 

From  her  diadem. 

She  weeps  ;  sheds  tears  of  grief,   of  sorrow, 

And  of  PRIDE. 

LOUISVILLE,  KY.,  July  24,  1861. 


THE   SOUTHRON  MOTHER'S  CHARGE.  139 
THE   SOUTHRON  MOTHER'S    CHARGE. 

BY    THOMAS    B.    HOOD. 

You  go,  my  son,  to  the  battle-field, 
To  repel  the  invading  foe  ; 

Mid  its  fiercest  conflicts  never  yield 
Till  death  shall  lay  you  low. 

Our  God,  who  smiles  upon  the  Right 
And  frowns  upon  the  Wrong, 

Will  nerve  you  for  our  holy  fight, 
And  make  your  courage  strong. 

Our  cause  is  just,  for  it  we  pray 
At  morning,  noon,  and  night, 

Upon  our  banners  we  inscribe, 
God,  Liberty,  and  Right. 

I  love  you  as  I  love  my  life, 

You  are  my  only  son  ; 
Your  country  calls,  go  forth  and  fight 

Till  Freedom's  cause  is  won. 

It  may  be  that  you  fall  in  death, 

Contending  for  your  home, 
Yet  your  aged  mother  will  not  be 

Forsaken  though  alone. 


140  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

A  thousand  generous  hearts  there  are 
Throughout  this  sunny  land, 

Whose  ample  fortunes  will  be  spent 
With  an  unsparing  hand. 

Now  go,  my  son,  a  mother's  prayers 

Will  ever  follow  thee ; 
And  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight 

Strike  home  for  liberty  ! 

On  every  hill,  in  every  glen, 
We'll  fight  till  we  are  free; 

We'll  fight  till  every  limpid  brook 
Runs  crimson  to  the  sea. 

No  truce  we  know,  till  every  foe 

Shall  leave  our  hallowed  sod, 
And  we  regain  that  heaven-born  boon, 

"  Freedom  to  worship  God/' 
NEW  ORLEANS,  LA. 


OUR  BOYS  ARE   GONE.  14! 

OUR   BOYS   ARE   GONE. 

BY   COL.    HAMILTON    WASHINGTON. 

OUR  boys  are  gone  'till  the  war  is  o'er, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  them  ; 
With  duty's  path  of  blood  before, 

And  with  all  they  love  behind  them  : 
They  bear  our  hearts  to  the  tented  field — 

Each  danger  makes  them  dearer — 
Their  faithful  hearts  our  only  shield 

From  the  foe  still  drawing  nearer. 

With  pride  we  hear  of  the  perils  braved 

And  the  wreaths  they  win  of  glory  ; 
With  joy  we  hear  of  lov'd  ones  saved 

From  each  field  of  battle  gory  ; 
And  joy  is  mix'd  with  fleeting  pain 

As  we  look  to  Heaven  o'er  us, 
And  think  that  there  we'll  meet  again, 

With  the  brave  who've  gone  before  us. 


142  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE   SOUTHERN   PLEIADES. 

BY    LAURA    LORRIMER. 

WHEN  first  our  Southern  flag  arose, 

Beside  the  heaving  sea, 
It  bore  upon  its  silken  folds 

A  green  Palmetto  tree. 
All  honor  to  that  banner  brave, 

It  roused  the  blood  of  yore, 
And  nerved  the  arm  of  Southern  men 

For  valiant  deeds  once  more. 

When  storm  clouds  darkened  o'er  our  sky, 

That  star,  the  first  of  seven, 
Shone  out  amid  the  mist  and  gloom, 

To  light  our  country's  heaven. 
The  glorious  seven  !  long  may  their  flag 

Wave  proudly  on  the  breeze  ; 
Long  may  they  burn  on  fame's  broad  sky — 

The  Southern  Pleiades! 

Nashville  Pattioi. 


THE   STARS  AND  BARS.  143 

THE   STARS   AND   BARS. 

BY    A.    J.    REQUIER. 

FLING  wide  the  dauntless  banner 

To  every  Southern  breeze, 
Baptized  in  flame,  with  Sumter's  name — 
A  patriot  and  a  hero's  fame — 

From  Moultrie  to  the  seas ! 
That  it  may  cleave  the  morning  sun 

And,  streaming,  sweep  the  night, 
The  emblem  of  a  battle  won 

With  Yankee  ships  in  sight. 

Come,  hucksters,  from  your  markets, 

Come,  bigots,  from  your  caves, 
Come,  venal  spies,  with  brazen  lies 
Bewildering  your  deluded  eyes, 

That  we  may  dig  your  graves  ; 
Come,  creatures  of  a  sordid  clown 

And  driveling  traitor's  breath, 
A  single  blast  shall  blow  you  down 

Upon  the  fields  of  Death. 

The  very  flag  you  carry 
Caught  its  reflected  grace, 


144  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

In  fierce  alarms,  from  Southern  arms, 
When  foemen  threatened  all  your  farms, 

And  never  saw  your  face  ; 
Ho  !  braggarts  of  New  England's  shore, 

Back  to  your  hills  and  delve 
The  soil  whose  craven  sons  foreswore 

The  flag  in  eighteen-twelve  ! 

We  wreathed  around  the  roses 

It  wears  before  the  world, 
And  made  it  bright  with  storied  light, 
In  every  scene  of  bloody  fight 

Where  it  has  been  unfurled  ; 
And  think  ye,  now,  the  dastard  hands 

That  never  yet  could  hold 
Its  staff,  shall  wave  it  o'er  our  lands, 

To  glut  the  greed  of  gold? 

No !  by  the  truth  of  Heaven 

And  its  eternal  Sun, 
By  .every  sire  whose  altar  fire 
Burns  on  to  beckon  and  inspire, 

It  never  shall  be  done ; 
Before  that  day  the  kites  shall  wheel 

Hail-thick  on  Northern  heights, 


THE  MARCH.  145 

And  there  our  bared,  aggressive  steel 
Shall  countersign  our  rights  ! 

Then  spread  the  flaming  banner 

O'er  mountain,  lake,  and  plain, 
Before  its  bars,  degraded  Mars 
Has  kissed  the  dust  with  all  his  stars, 

And  will  be  struck  again  ; 
For  could  its  triumph  now  be  stayed 

By  Hell's  prevailing  gates, 
A  sceptred  Union  would  be  made 

The  grave  of  sovereign  States. 


THE   MARCH. 

BY    JOHN    W.    OVERALL. 

TRAMP,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  ! 

Go  the  Southern  braves  to  battle, 
How  they  shine,  each  gleaming  line ! 

Flashing  sabers !  how  they  rattle ! 
Every  lip  is  now  compressed, 

Every  heart  now  yearns  for  glory, 
Every  eye  with  patriot  fire 

Burns  for  battle  fierce  and  gory! 
10    • 


146  SOATGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp ! 

Death  is  in  each  hidden  saber, 
Reaper  of  the  fields  of  Time, 

Look  ye  for  a  giant's  labor! 
How  sublime  !  when  patriots  feel 

All  the  strength  of  self-reliance, 
Marching  on  to  meet  the  foe, 

With  a  stern  and  grim  defiance  ! 

See  how  proudly  floats  our  flag  ! 

White  !  our  cause  is  pure  and  grand,  man  ! 
Red  !  a  living  flood  shall  flow 

From  every  foe  now  in  the  land,  man ! 
Blue !  aye,  heaven's  stars  are  there ! 

Sparkling  in  their  azure  beauty  ! 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  ! 

Go  the  messengers  of  duty  ! 


SOUTHERN  WAR   SONG. 

BY    N.    P.     W. 

To  horse !  to  horse !  our  standard  flies, 

The  bugles  sound  the  call; 
An  alien  navy  stems  our  seas — 


SOUTHERN    WAR   SONG.  147 

The  voice  of  battle's  on  the  breeze, 
Arouse  ye,  one  and  all ! 

From  beauteous  Southern  homes  we  come, 

A  band  of  brothers  true — 
Resolved  to  fight  for  liberty, 
And  live  or  perish  with  our  flag — 

The  noble  Red  and  Blue. 

Though  tamely  crouch  to  Northern  frown 

Kentucky's  tardy  train  ; 
Though  invaded   soil  Maryland  mourns, 
Though  brave  Missouri  vainly  spurns, 

And  foaming  gnaws  the  chain  ; 

Oh  !   had  they  marked  the  avenging  call 

Their  brethren's  insults  gave, 
Disunion  ne'er  their  ranks  had  mown, 
Nor  patriot  valor,  desperate  grown, 

Sought  freedom  in  the  gravel 

Shall  we,  too,  bend  the  stubborn  head, 

In  Freedom's  temple  born — 
Dress  our  pale  cheek  in  timid  smiles, 
To  hail  a  master  in  our  house, 

Or  brook  a  victor's  scorn? 


148  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

No  !  though  destruction  o'er  the  land 

Come  pouring  as  a  flood, 
The  sun  that  sees  our  falling  day, 
Shall  mark  our  saber's  deadly  sway, 

And  set  that  night  in  blood ! 

For  gold  let  Northern  legions  fight, 

Or  plunder's   bloody  gain ; 
Unbribed,  unbought,  our  swords  we  draw, 
To  guard  our  homes,  to  fence  our  law, 

Nor  shall  their  edge  be  vain. 

And  now  that  breath  of  Northern  gale 

Has  fanned  the  Stars  and  Bars, 
And  footstep  of  invader  rude, 
With  rapine  foul,  and  red  with  blood, 
Us  rights  and  liberty  debars. 

Then  farewell  home,   and  farewell  friends, 

Adieu  each  tender  tie, 
Resolved  we  mingle  in  the  tide, 
Where  charging  squadrons  furious  ride, 

To   conquer  or  to  die. 

To  horse,  to  horse!   the  sabers  gleam, 
High  sounds  our  bugle-call, 


WE'LL  BE  FREE  IN  MARYLAND.       149 

Combined  by  honor's  sacred  tie, 
Our  word  is,  Rights  and  Liberty  ! 
March  forward,   one  and  all ! 

Louisville  Courier. 


WE'LL   BE   FREE   IN   MARYLAND. 

BY    ROBERT    E.    HOLTZ. 
AIR—  "  Gideon's  Band." 

THE  boys  down  South  in  Dixie's  land, 
The  boys  down  South  in  Dixie's  land, 
The  boys  down  South  in  Dixie's  land, 
Will  come   and  rescue  Maryland. 
Chorus—  If  you  will  join  the   Dixie  band, 

Here's  my  heart  and  here's  my  hand, 
If  you  will  join  the  Dixie  band  ; 
We're  fighting  for  a  home. 

The  Northern  foes  have  trod  us  down, 
The  Northern  foes  have  trod  us  down, 
The  Northern  foes  have  trod  us  down, 
But  we  will  rise  with  true  renown. 

If  you   will  join  the  Dixie  band,  etc. 


ISO  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

The  tyrants  they  must  leave  our  door, 
The  tyrants  they  must  leave  our  door, 
The  tyrants  they  must  leave  our  door, 
Then  we'll  be  free  in  Baltimore. 

If  you  will  join  the   Dixie  band,  etc. 

These  hirelings  they'll  never  stand, 
These  hirelings  they'll  never  stand, 
These  hirelings  they'll  never  stand, 
Whenever  they  see  the  Southern  band. 
If  you  will  join  the  Dixie  band,  etc. 

Old  Abe  has  got  into  a  trap, 
Old  Abe  has  got  into  a  trap, 
Old  Abe  has  got  into  a  trap, 
And  he  can't  get  out  with  his  Scotch  cap. 
If  you  will  join  the  Dixie  band,  etc. 

Nobody's  hurt  is  easy  spun, 
Nobody's  hurt  is  easy  spun, 
Nobody's  hurt  is  easy  spun, 
But  the  Yankees  caught  it  at  Bull  Run. 
If  you  will  join  the  Dixie  band,  etc. 

We  rally  to  Jeff.  Davis  true, 
Beauregard  and  Johnston,  too, 


WAR   SONG.  151 

Magruder,  Price,  and  General  Bragg, 
And  give  three  cheers  for  the  Southern  flag. 
If  you  will  join  the  Dixie  band,  etc. 

We'll  drink  this  toast  to  one  and  all, 
Keep  cocked  and  primed  for  the  Southern  call . 
The  day  will  come,  we'll  make  the  stand, 
Then  we'll  be  free  in  Maryland. 

If  you  will  join  the  Dixie  band,  etc. 
January  30,  1862. 


WAR   SONG. 

BY   J.    H.    WOODCOCK. 
TUNE — "Bonnie  Blue  Flag." 

HUZZA  !  huzza !  let's  raise  the  battle-cry, 
And  whip  the  Yankees  from  our  land, 

Or  with  them  fall  and  die. 

Rush  on  our  Southron  columns, 

And  make  the  brigands  feel 

That  all  the  booty  they  will  get, 

Will  be  our  Southron  steel. 

Huzza  !  huzza  !  let's  raise  (the)  our  banner  high, 


152  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

And  nobly  drive  the  Yankees  out, 
Or  with  them  fall  and  die. 

Rush  on  the  columns — let  every  Southron  brave 

Nobly  charge  the  accursed  foe, 
Or  find  a  soldier's  grave. 

With  bowie  and  with  pike, 
We'll  rally  to  the  field, 

And  bravely  to  the  last  we'll  strike, 
Resolved  we'll  never  yield. 

Huzza  !  huzza  I  etc. 

We  are  fighting  for  our  mothers,  our  sisters,  and 
our  wives  ; 

For  these,  and  our  country's  rights, 
We'll  sacrifice  our  lives. 

Then,  trusting  still  to  Heaven, 
We'll  charge  the  invading  host, 

Till  liberty  and  independence 
Shall  be  the  nation's  boast. 

Huzza  !  huzza  !  etc. 

Then  on  with  our  columns — slay  the  vandal  foe — 

Beat  them  from  our  sunny  soil, 
And  lay  their  colors  low. 

To  the  great  God  of  nations 


A   NEW  RED,    WHITE,   AND  BLUE.      153 

Our  sacred  cause  confide, 

For  we    are  fighting  for  our  liberty, 
And  He  is  on  our  side. 

Huzza  !  huzza !  etc. 


A   NEW   RED,   WHITE,   AND   BLUE. 

WRITTEN    FOR    A    LADY,    BY    JEFF.    THOMPSON. 

MISSOURI  is  the  pride  of  the  nation, 
The  hope  of  the  brave  and  the  free  ; 
The  Confederacy  will  furnish  the  rations, 
But  the  fighting  is  trusted  to  thee  ; 
For,  brave  boys,  your  soil  has  been  noted, 
And  your  flag  has  been  trusted  to  you  ; 
For  freedom  you  have  not  yet  voted, 
But  you  fight  for  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 
Chorus — Three  cheers,   etc. 

The  Stars  shall  shine  bright  in  the  heaven, 
But  the  Stripes  should  be  trailed  in  the  dust, 
For  they  are  no  longer  the  sign  of  the  haven 
Of  the  brave,  of  the  free,  or  the  just ; 


154  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

The  Bars  now  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  faithful  and   true  ; 
O'er  the  home  of  the  Southern  brave 
Shall  float  the  new  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 
Chorus — Three  cheers,  etc. 


O  JOHNNY  BULL,  MY  JO  JOHN. 

AIR — "  John  Anderson,  my  y<?." 

It  was  stated  in  the  Richmond  "  Dispatch "  during  the 
last  days  of  December,  1861,  that  a  gentleman,  just  from 
the  West  Indies,  had  said  that  there  were  eighty-seven 
British  ships-of-war  lying  in  those  waters.  This  statement 
gave  rise  to  the  following  imitation  of  an  old  song : 

O  JOHNNY  Bull,  my  Jo    John!  I  wonder    what 

you  mean, 
By  sending  all  these  frigates  out,  commissioned 

by  the  Queen ; 
You'll  frighten  off  the  Yankees,  John,  and  why 

should  you  do  so  ? 
Best  catch  and  sink,  or  burn  them  all,  O  Johnny 

Bull,  my  Jo  ! 


O  JOHNNY  BULL,    MY  JO  JOHN.       155 

O  Johnny  Bull,  my  Jo  John  !  when  Yankee  hands 

profane, 

Were  laid  in  wanton  insult  upon  the  lion's  mane, 
He  roared  so  loud  and  long,  John,   they  quickly 

let  him  go, 
And  sank  upon  their  trembling  knees,  O  Johnny 

Bull,  my  Jo  ! 

O  Johnny  Bull,  my  Jo  John  !  when  Lincoln  first 
began 

To  try  his  hand  at  war,  John,  you  were  a  peace 
ful  man  ; 

But  now  your  blood  is  up,  John,  and  well  the 
Yankees  know, 

You  play  the when  you  start,  O  Johnny  Bull? 

my  Jo ! 

O  Johnny  Bull,  my  Jo  John,  let's  take  the  field 

together, 
And  hunt  the  Yankee  Doodles  home,  in  spite  of 

wind  and  weather, 
And  ere   a  twelvemonth  roll   around,  to  Boston 

we  will  go, 
And  eat  our  Christmas  dinner  there,  O  Johnny 

Bull,  my  Jo ! 


156  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
"  SOUTHRONS." 

BY    CATHERINE    M.    WARFIELD. 

You  can  never  win  them  back — 

Never !  never ! 
Though  they  perish  on  the  track 

Of  your  endeavor  ; 
Though  their  corses  strew  the  earth, 
That  SMILED  upon  their  birth, 
And  blood  pollutes  each  hearth- 
Stone  forever  ! 

They  have  risen  to  a  man, 

Stern  and  fearless  ; 
Of  your  curses  and  your  ban 

They  are  careless. 
Every  hand  is  on  its  knife, 
Every  gun  is  primed  for  strife, 
Every  PALM  contains  a  life, 

High  and  peerless ! 

You  have  no  such  blood  as  theirs 

For  the  shedding  : 
In  the  veins  of  cavaliers 

Was  its  heading  : 


"  SO  UTHRONS?  1 5  7 

You  have  no  such  stately  men 
In  your  "abolition  den," 
To  march  through  foe  and  fen, 
Nothing  dreading ! 

They  may  fall  before  the  fire 

Of  your  legions, 
Paid  with  gold  for  murderous  hire — 

Bought  allegiance  ; 
But  for  every  drop  you  shed, 
You  shall  have  a  mound  of  dead, 
So  that  vultures  may  be  fed 
In  our  regions  ! 

But  the  battle  to  the  strong 

Is  not  given, 
When  the  Judge  of  Right  and  Wrong 

Sits  in  heaven  ; 
And  the  God  of  David  still 

Guides  the  pebble  with  His  will  j 
There  are  giants  yet  to  kill — 

Wrongs  unshriven  ! 


158  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
"NIL   DESPERANDUM." 

Inscribed  to  our  Soldier-boys, 
BY    ADA    ROSE. 

THE  Yankee  hosts   are  coming, 

With  their  glittering  rows  of  steel, 
And  sharp,   from  many  a  skirmish, 

Comes  the  rifle's  ringing  peal, 
Warning  you  how  very  near 

The  Northern  "  Hessians  "  are, 
With  their  overwhelming  forces ; 

But  ne'er  must  you  despair. 

For  though  they  come  on,  surging 

Like  a  mighty  rolling  sea, 
They're  hired  by  their  master,  "  Abe  " — 

You  fight  for  Liberty. 
So  bravely  you  must  meet  them, 

And  face  the  cannon's  blare  ; 
Your  watchword,  "  Victory  or  Death," 

And  never  you  despair. 

True,  the  cloud  is  dark  and  lowering, 
But  behind  a  cheerful  ray, 


"NIL  DESPERANDUM."  159 

And  the  night  is  always  darkest 

Just  before  the  break  of  day. 
Have  faith ;  the  cloud  will  soon  disperse, 

For  the  light  is  surely  there  ; 
The  day  will  soon  be  dawning, 

So  never  you  despair. 

Go,  emulate  brave  Washington, 

Who  led  a  little  band, 
To  drive  the  proud  oppressors 

From  off  their  happy  land. 
The  enemy  outnumbered, 

By  far,  the  "  rebels  "  there  ; 
But  bravely  they  encountered  them, 

Nor  yielded  to  despair. 

'Tis  said  that  "rebel"  chieftain, 

Ere  they  sought  the  battle's  fray, 
Would  ask  our  Heavenly  Father 

To  be  their  shield  and  stay  ; 
And  then  they'd  march  with  confidence, 

Well  knowing  He'd  be   there  ; 
And  that  must  be  the  reason  why 

They  never  did  despair. 


l6o  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Likewise,  if  you  will  ask  Him, 

He'll  meet  you  on  the  field, 
To  be  a  guard  about  you, 

And  your  support  and  shield  ; 
The  foe  shall  fly  before  you, 

As  you  shout  your  victory  there ; 
Then  don't  forget  to  plead  with  Him, 

And  never  to  despair. 

PINE  BLUFF,  ARK. 


ADDRESS  OF  THE  WOMEN  TO  THE 
SOUTHERN  TROOPS. 

BY    MRS.    J.    T.    H.    CROSS. 
AIR— u  Bruce1  s  Address." 

SOUTHERN  men,  unsheathe  the  sword, 
Inland  and  along  the  board  ; 
Backward  drive  the  Northern  horde — 
Rush  to  Victory  ! 

Let  your  banners  kiss  the  sky, 
Be  "  The  Right  "  your  battle  cry  ! 
Be  the   God  of  Battles  nigh- 
Crown  you  in  the  fight ! 


ADDRESS  OF   THE    WOMEN.  l6l 

Pressing  back  the  tears  that  start, 
We  behold  your  hosts  depart, 
Saying,  with  heroic  heart, 

Clothe  your  arms  with  might  ! 

Lower  the  proud  oppressor's  crest ! 
Or,  if  he  should  prove  the  best, 
Dead,  not  dishonored,  rest 

On  the  field  of  blood  ! 

We — may  God  so  give  us  grace  ! — 
Sons  will  rear,  to  take  your  place  ; 
Strong  the  foemen's  steel  to   face — 
Strong  in  heart  and  hand ! 

Death  your  serried  ranks  may  sweep, 
Proud  shall  be  the  tears  we  weep — 
Sacredly  our  hearts  shall  keep 

Memory  of  your  deeds  ! 

Though  our  land  be  left  forlorn, 

Spirit  of  the  Southron-born 

Northern  rage  shall  laugh  to  scorn — 

Northern  hosts  defy, 
ii 


1 62  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

He  that  last  is  doomed  to  die 
Shall,  with  his  expiring  sigh, 
Send  aloft  the  battle-cry, 

"  God  defend  the  Right !  " 


THE  CAVALIERS  OF  DIXIE. 

BY    BENJAMIN    F.    PORTER. 

YE  Cavaliers  of  Dixie  ! 

Who  guard  the  Southern  shores, 

Whose  standards  brave  the  battle  storm 

Which  o'er  our  border  roars  ; 

Your  glorious  sabers  draw  once  more, 

And  charge  the  Northern  foe  ; 

And  reap  their  columns  deep, 

Where  the  raging  tempests  blow, 

And  the  iron  hail  in  floods  descends, 

And  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 

Ye  Cavaliers  of  Dixie  ! 
Though  dark  the  tempest  lower, 
What  arms  will  wear  the  tyrants  chains, 
What  dastard  heart  will  cower? 


THE   CAVALIERS  OF  DIXIE.  163 

Bright  o'er  the  night  a  sign  shall  rise 
To  lead  to  victory  ! 
And  your  swords  reap  their  hordes, 
Where  the  battle  tempests  blow; 
Where  the  iron  hail  in  floods  descends, 
And  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 

The  South  !  she  needs  no  ramparts, 
No  lofty  towers  to  shield  ; 
Your  bosoms  are  her  bulwarks  strong, 
Breastworks  that  never  yield  ! 
The  thunders  of  your  battle  blades 
Shall  sweep  the  servile  foe  ; 
While  their  gore  stains  the  shore, 
Where  the  battle  tempests  blow ; 
Where  the  iron  hail  in  floods  descends, 
And  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 

The  battle-flag  of  Dixie  ! 

With  crimson  field  shall  flame, 

Her  azure  cross  and  silver  stars 

Shall  light  her  sons  to  fame  ! 

When  peace  with  olive-branch  returns, 

That  flag's  white  folds  shall  glow 

Still  bright  on  every  height, 


164  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

When  storm  has  ceased  to  blow, 

And  the  battle  tempests  roar  no  more ; 

Nor  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 

Oh  !  battle-flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Long,  long,  triumphant  wave ! 

Where'er  the  storms  of  battle  roar, 

Or  victory  crowns  the  brave  ! 

The  Cavaliers  of  Dixie  ! 

In  woman's  song  shall  glow 

The  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow, 

When  the  battle  tempests  rage  no  more 

Nor  the  bloody  torrents  flow.* 


LAND   OF  KING  COTTON. 

BY    JO.    AUGUSTINE    SIGNAIGO. 
AIR—"  Red,   White,  and  Blue.''1 

OH  !  Dixie,  the  land  of  King  Cotton, 
The  home  of  the  brave  and  the  free  ; 

*  This  song  was  very  popular  with  the  Southern  troops, 
and  was  sung  with  great  effect  to  the  measure  of  "Ye 
Mariners  of  England." 


LAND   OF  KING  COTTON.  165 

A  nation  by  Freedom  begotten, 

The  terror  of  despots  to  be  ; 
Wherever  thy  banner  is  streaming, 

Base  tyranny  quails  at  thy  feet, 
And  Liberty's  sunlight  is  beaming, 

In  splendor  of  majesty  sweet. 
Chorus — Three  cheers  for  our  army  so  true, 

Three  cheers  for  Price,  Johnston,  and  Lee, 

Beauregard,  and  our  Davis,  forever ; 

The  pride  of  the  brave  and  the  free  ! 

When   Liberty  sounds  her  war-rattle, 

Demanding  her  right  and  her  due, 
The  first  land  who  rallies  to  battle 

Is  Dixie,  the  shrine  of  the  true  ; 
Thick  as  leaves  of  the  forest  in  summer, 

Her  brave  sons  will  rise  on  each  plain; 
And  strike,  until  each  vandal  comer 

Lies  dead  on  the  soil  he  would  stain. 
Three  cheers  for  our  army,  etc. 

May  the  names  of  the  dead,   that  we  cherish, 

Fill  memory's  cup  to  the  brim ; 
May  the  laurels  they've  won  never  perish, 

Nor  "  star  of   their  glory  grow  dim ; " 


1 66  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

May  the  States  of  the  South  never  sever, 
But  champions  of  freedom  e'er  be; 

May  they  flourish,  Confed'rate  forever, 
The  boast  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 
Three  cheers  for  our  army,   etc.* 


THE    GUERILLAS. 

BY    S.    TEACKLE    WALLIS. 

AWAKE  and  to  horse,  my  brothers! 

For  the  dawn  is  glimmering  gray, 
And  hark  !  in  the  crackling  brushwood 

There  are  feet  that  tread  this  way. 

"  Who  cometh  ?  "   "A  friend."    "What  tidings?" 

"  O  God  !  I  sicken  to  tell ; 
For  the  earth  seems  earth  no  longer, 

And  its  sights  are  sights  of  hell ! 

"From  the  far-off  conquered  cities 
Comes  a  voice  of  stifled  wail, 

*This  song  was  published  in  the  Memphis  "Appeal," 
in  December,  1861,  was  a  great  favorite  with  Tennessee 
troops,  and  was  sung  even  after  the  peace  was  declared. 


THE   GUERILLAS.  1 67 

And  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  the  houseless 
Ring  out,  like  a  dirge  on  the  gale. 

"  I've  seen  from  the  smoking  village 

Our  mothers  and  daughters  fly; 
I've  seen  where  the  little  children 

Sank  down  in  the  furrows  to  die. 

"  On  the  banks  of  the  battle-stained  river 

I  stood  as  the  moonlight  shone, 
And  it  glared  on  the  face  of  my  brother, 

As  the  sad  wave  swept  him  on. 

"Where  my  home  was  glad,  are  ashes, 
And  horrors  and  shame  had  been  there, 

For  I  found  on  the  fallen  lintel 
This  tress  of  my  wife's  torn  hair  ! 

"They  are  turning  the  slaves  upon  us, 
And  with  more  than  the  fiend's  worst  art, 

Have  uncovered  the  fire  of  the  savage, 
That  slept  in  his  untaught  heart ! 

"The  ties  to  our  hearths  that  bound  him, 
They  have  rent  with  curses  away, 

And  maddened  him,  with   their  madness, 
To  be  almost  as  brutal  as  they. 


1 68  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

"With  halter,   and  torch,   and  Bible, 
And  hymns  to  the  sound  of  the  drum, 

They  preach  the  gospel  of  murder, 
And   pray  for  lust's  kingdom  to  come. 

"  To  saddle  !  to  saddle  !   my  brothers  ! 

Look  up  to  the  rising  sun, 
And  ask  of  the  God  who  shines  there, 

Whether  deeds  like  these  shall  be  done  ! 

u  Wherever  the  vandal  cometh, 

Press  home  to  his  heart  with  your  steel, 
And  when  at  his  bosom  you  can  not, 

Like  the  serpent,  go  strike  at  his  heel. 

"  Through  thicket  and  wood,   go  hunt  him, 
Creep  up  to  his  camp-fire  side, 

And  let  ten   of  his  corpses  blacken 
Where  one  of  our  brothers  hath  died. 

"  In  -his  fainting,  foot-sore   marches, 
In  his  flight  from  the  stricken  fray, 

In  the  snare  of  the  lonely  ambush, 
The  debts  we  owe  him,  pay. 


THE   GUERILLAS.  169 

"  In  God's  hand  alone  is  vengeance, 
But  he  strikes  with  the  hands  of  men, 

And  his  blight  would  wither  our  manhood, 
If  we  smite  not  the  smiter  again. 

"  By  the  graves  where  our  fathers  slumber, 
By  the  shrines  where  our  mothers  prayed, 

By  our  homes,  and  hopes,  and  freedom, 
Let  every  man  swear  on  his  blade, 

"  That  he  will  not  sheathe  nor  stay  it, 

Till  from  point  to  hilt  it  glow 
With  the  flush  of  Almighty  vengeance, 

In  the  blood  of  the  felon  foe." 

They  swore — and  the  answering  sunlight 
Leaped  red  from  their  lifted  swords, 

And  the  hate  in  their  hearts  made  echo 
To  the  wrath  in  their  burning  words. 

There's  weeping  in  all   New   England, 
And  by  SchuylkiU's   banks  a  knell, 

And  the  widows  there  and  the  orphans, 
How  the  oath  was  kept,  can  tell.* 

*  It  may  add  something  to  the  interest  with  which  these 
stirring  lines  will  be  read,  to  know  that  they  were  composed 


I/O  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

SOUTHERN   MARSEILLAISE. 

YE  men  of  Southern  hearts  and  feeling, 

Arm,  Arm  !  your  struggling  country  calls — 
Hear  ye  the  guns  now  loudly  pealing, 

From  Sumter's  high  embattled  walls  ! 
Shall  a  fanatic  horde  in  power 

Send  forth  a  base  and  hireling  band, 
To  desolate  our  happy  land, 
And  make  our  Southern  freemen  cower. 
To  arms,  to  arms  !  each  one, 
The  sword  unsheathe,  raise  the  gun, 
Then  on,  rush  on,  ye  brave  and  free, 
To  death  or  victory. 

Now  clouds  of  war  begin  to  gather, 
And  black  and  murky  is  our  sky — 

Shall  we  submit — no,  never,  never  ! 
Let  death  or  freedom  be  our  cry — 

In  Heaven's  justice  firm  relying, 
We'll  nobly  struggle  to  be  free, 

within  the  walls  of  a  Yankee  Bastile.  They  reach  us  in 
manuscript,  through  the  courtesy  of  a  returned  prisoner. — 
Richmond  Examiner* 


SOUTHERN  MARSEILLAISE.  I /I 

And  bravely  gain  our  liberty, 
Or  die,  our  Northern  foes  defying. 

To  arms,  to  arms !  each  one,  etc. 

The  peaceful  homes  of  Texas  burning, 
And  Harper's  Ferry's  blood-stained  soil, 

Proclaim  how  strong  their  hearts  are  yearning 
For  murder,  pillage,  crime,   and  spoil. 

Shall  we  our  feelings  longer  smother, 
And  bear  with  patience  yet  our  wrongs, 
Their    jeers,    their    crimes,    their    taunts    and 
thongs, 

And  greet  them  still  as  friend  and  brother? 
To  arms,  to  arms  !  each  one,  etc. 

Their  tyranny  we'll  bear  no  longer, 

But  burst  asunder  every  tie, 
Although  in  numbers  they  are  stronger, 

We  will  be  free,  or  we  will  die ! 
Too  long  the  South  has  wept,  bewailing 

That  falsehood's  dagger  Yankees  wield, 

But  freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

To  arms,  to  arms,  each  one,  etc. 

Beauregard  Songster. 


172  SONGS  OF    THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
RICHMOND   ON   THE   JAMES. 

BY    G.    T.    BURGESS. 

A  SOLDIER  of  our  army  lay  gasping  on  the  field, 

When  battle's  shock  was  over,  and  the  foe  was 
forced  to  yield. 

He  fell  a  youthful  hero,  before  the  foemen's 
aims, 

On  a  blood-red  field  near  Richmond,  near  Rich 
mond  on  the  James. 

But  one  still  stood  beside  him,  his  comrade  in 
the  fray, 

They  had  been  friends  together  through  boy 
hood's  happy  day, 

And  side  by  side  had  struggled  on  field  of  blood 
and  flames, 

To  part  that  eve  near  Richmond,  near  Rich 
mond  on  the  James. 

He  said,  "  I  charge  thee,  comrade,  the  friend  in 

days  of  yore, 
Of  the  far,  far  distant  dear  ones  that  I  shall  see 

no  more, 


RICHMOND   ON   THE  JAMES.  1/3 

Though   scarce  my  lips  can  whisper   their   dear 

and  well-known  names, 
To   bear   to  them  my  blessing   from  Richmond 

on  the  James. 

"Bear  my  good  sword  to  my  brother,  and  the 
badge  upon  my  breast, 

To  the  young  and  gentle  sister  that  I  used  to 
love  the  best ; 

But  one  lock  from  my  forehead  give  my  mother 
who  still  dreams 

Of  her  soldier  boy  near  Richmond — near  Rich 
mond  on  the  James. 

"  Oh,    I   wish   that    mother's    arms   were    folded 

round  me  now, 
That  her  gentle  hand  could  linger  one  moment 

on  my  brow, 
But    I    know    that    she    is    praying    where    our 

blessed  hearth-light  gleams, 
For  her  soldier's  safe  return  from  Richmond  on 

the  James. 

"  And  on  my  heart,  dear  comrade,  close  lay  those 

nut-brown  braids, 
Of  one  who  was  the  fairest  of  all  our  village  maids  ; 


1 74  SO.V GS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

We  were  to  have  been  wedded,  but  death  the 

bridegroom  claims, 
And  she  is  far,  that  loves  me,   from  Richmond 

on  the  James. 

"Oh,  does  the  pale  face  haunt  her,  dear  friend, 
that  looks  on  thee  ? 

Or  is  she  laughing,  singing  in  careless  girlish  glee  ? 

It  may  be  she  is  joyous,  and  loves  but  joyous 
themes, 

Nor  dreams  her  love  lies  bleeding  near  Rich 
mond  on  the  James. 

"And  though  I  know,  dear  comrade,  thou'lt 
miss  me  for  a  while, 

When  their  faces — all  that  loved  thee — again  on 
thee  shall  smile  ; 

Again  thou'lt  be  the  foremost  in  all  their  youth 
ful  games, 

But  I  shall  lie  near  Richmond — near  Richmond 
on  the  James." 

And  far  from  all  that  loved  him,  that  youthful 
soldier  sleeps, 

Unknown  among  the  thousands  of  those  his  coun 
try  weeps  ; 


FROM   THE   SOUTH   TO    THE  NORTH.   1/5 

But  no  higher  heart  nor  braver,  than  his,  at  sun 
set's  beams, 

Was  laid  that  eve  near  Richmond — near  Rich 
mond  on  the  James. 

The  land  is  filled  with  mourning,  from  hall  and 

cot  left  lone, 
We  miss  the  well-known  faces  that  used  to  greet 

our  own ; 
And  long  poor  wives   and  mothers   shall  weep, 

and  titled  dames, 
To  hear  the  name  of  Richmond — of  Richmond 

on  the  James. 


FROM  THE  SOUTH  TO  THE  NORTH. 

BY    C.    L.    S. 

THERE  is  no  union  when  the  hearts 
That  once  were  bound  together 

Have  felt  the  stroke  that  coldly  parts 
All  kindly  ties  forever. 

Then  oh  !  your  cruel  hands  draw  back, 
And  let  us  be  divided 


SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

In  peace,  since  it  is  proved  we  lack 
The  grace  to  live  united. 

We  can  not  bear  your  scorn  and  pride, 

Your  malice  and  your  taunting, 
That  have  for  years  our  patience  tried — 

Your  hypocritic  canting. 
We  WILL  not  bow  our  necks  beneath 

The  yoke  that  you  decree  us, 
We  WILL  be  free,  though  only  death 

Should  have  the  power  to  free  us  ! 

Oh,  Southern  sons  are  bold  to  dare, 

And  Southern  hearts  courageous. 
Nor  meekly  will  they  longer  bear 

Oppression  so  outrageous. 
And  you  shall  feel  our  honest  wrath, 

If  hearts  so  cold  can  feel ; 
Shall  meet  us  in  your  Southern  path 

And  prove  our  Southern  steel. 

We  ask  no  favor  at  your  hand, 

No  gifts  and  no  affection  ; 
But  only  peace  upon  our  land, 

And  none  of  your  protection. 


FROM   THE   SOUTH   TO    THE  NORTH.  1/ 

We  ask  you  now,  henceforth,  to  know 

We  are  a  separate  nation ; 
And  be  assured  we'll  fully  show 

We  scorn  your  "proclamation." 

We  were  not  first  to  break  the  peace, 

That  blessed  our  happy  land  ; 
We  loved  the  quiet,  calm,  and  ease, 

Too  well  to  raise  a  hand, 
Till  fierce  oppression  stronger  grew, 

And  bitter  were  your  sneers — 
Then  to  our  land  we  must  be  true, 

Or  show  a  coward's  fears  ! 

We  loved  our  banner  while  it  waved 

An  emblem  of  our  Union, 
The  fiercest  danger  we  had  braved 

To  guard  that  sweet  communion. 
But  when  it  proved  that  "  stripes  "  alone 

Were  for  our  sunny  South, 
And  all  the  "  stars  "  in  triumph  shone 

Above  the  chilly  North — 

Then,  not  till  then,  our  voices  rose 
In  one  tumultuous  wave — 

12 


SONGS  OF  THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

We  WILL  the  tyranny  oppose, 

Or  find  a  bloody  grave  ! 
Another  flag  shall  lead  our  hosts 

To  battle  on  the  plain, 
The  "  rebels  "  will  defy  your  boasts, 

And  prove  your  sneering  vain  ! 

There  is  no  danger  we  could  fear — 

No  hardship  or  privation — 
To  free  the  land  we  hold  so  dear, 

From  tyrannous  dictation. 
Blockade  her  ports — her  seas  shall  swell 

Beneath  your  ships  of  war, 
And  every  breeze  in  anger  tell 

Your  tyranny  afar. 

Her  wealth  may  fail — her  commerce  droop 

With  every  foreign  nation  ; 
But  mark  you,  if  her  pride  shall  stoop, 

Or  her  determination  ! 
The  products  of  her  fields  will  be 

For  food  and  raiment  too — 
From  mountain  cliff  to  rolling  sea 

Her  children  will  be  true. 


A   BALLAD  OF   THE    WAR. 

Her  banner  may  not  always  wave 

On  victory's  fickle  breath, 
The  young,  chivalrous,  and  the  brave, 

May  feel  the  hand  of  death. 
But,  when  her  gallant  sons  have  died, 

Her  daughters  will  remain — 
Nor  crushed  will  be  the  Southern  pride, 

Till  they  too,  all  are  slain. 


A   BALLAD   OF   THE   WAR. 

BY  GEORGE  HERBERT  SASS,  OF  S.  C. 

WATCHMAN,  what  of  the  night  ? 

Through  the  city's  darkening  street, 
Silent  and  slow,  the  guardsmen  go 

On  their  long  and  lonely  beat. 

Darkly,  drearily  down, 

Falleth  the  wintry  rain  ; 
And  the  cold  gray  mist  hath  the  roof-tops  kissed, 

As  it  glides  o'er  town  and  plain. 


180  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Beating  against  the  windows, 

The  sleet  falls  heavy  and  chill, 
And  the  children  draw  nigher  'round  hearth  and 
fire, 

As  the  blast  shrieks  loud  and  shrill. 

Silent  is  all  without 

Save  the  sentry's  challenge  grim, 
And  a  hush  sinks  down  o'er  the  weary  town 

And  the  sleeper's  eyes  are  dim. 

Watchman,  what  of  the  night  ? 

Hark  !  from  the  old  church  tower 
Rings  loud  and  clear,  on  the  wintry  air, 

The  chime  of  the  midnight  hour. 

But  another  sound  breaks  in, 

A  summons  deep  and  rude, 
The  roll  of  the  drum,  and  the  rush  and  hum 

Of  a  gathering  multitude. 

And  the  dim  and  flickering  torch 

Sheds  a  red  and  lurid  glare, 
O'er  the  long  dark  line,  where  bayonets  shine 

Faintly,  yet  sternly  there. 


A   BALLAD   OF   THE    WAR.  l8l 

A  low,  deep  voice  is  heard  : 

"Rest  on  your  arms,  my  men." 
Then  the   muskets    clank    through  each   serried 
rank, 

And  all  is  still  again. 

Pale  faces  and  tearful  eyes 

Gaze  down  on  that  grim  array, 
For  a  rumor  hath  spread  that  that  column  dread 

Marcheth  ere  break  of  day. 

Marcheth  against  "the  rebels," 

Whose  camp  lies  heavy  and  still, 
Where  the  driving  sleet  and  the  cold  rain  beat 

On  the  brow  of  a  distant  hill. 

And  the  mother's  heart  grows  faint, 

As  she  thinks  of  her  darling  one, 
Who  perchance  may  lie  'neath  that  wintry  sky, 

Ere  the  long,  dark  night  be   done. 

Pallid  and  haggard,  too, 

Is  the  cheek  of  the  fair  young  wife  ; 
And   her  eye  grows  dim  as  she  thinks  of  him 

She  loveth  more  than  life. 


1 82  SONGS  OF   THE    SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

For  fathers,  husbands,  sons, 

Are  the  "rebels"  the  foe  would  smite, 
And  earnest  the  prayer  for  those  lives  so  dear, 

And  a  bleeding  country's  right. 

And  where  their  treasure  is, 

There  is  each  loving  heart ; 
And  sadly  they  gaze  by  the  torch's  blaze, 

And  the  tears  unbidden  start. 

Is  there  none  to  warn  the  camp, 

None  from  that  anxious  throng? 
Ah,  the  rain  beats  down  o'er  plain  and  town — 

The  way  is  dark  and  long. 

No  man  is  left  behind, 

None  that  is  brave  and  true, 
And  the  bayonets  bright,  in  the  lurid  light, 

With  menace  stern  shine  through. 

Guarded  is  every  street, 

Brutal  the  hireling  foe  ; 
Is  there  one  heart  here  will  boldly  dare 

So  brave  a  deed  to  do  ? 


A   BALLAD   OF   THE    WAR.  183 

Look  !  in  her  still,  dark  room, 

Alone  a  woman  kneels, 
With  Care's  deep  trace  on  her    pale,  worn  face 

And  Sorrow's  ruthless   seals. 

Wrinkling  her  placid  brow, 

A  matron,  she,  and  fair, 
Though  wan  her  cheek,  and  the  silver  streak 

Gemming  her  glossy  hair. 

A  moment  in  silent  prayer 

Her  pale  lips  move,  and  then, 
Through  the  dreary  night,  like  an  angel  bright, 

On  her  mission  of  love  to  men. 

She  glideth  upon  her  way, 

Through  the  lonely,  misty  street, 
Shrinking  with  dread  as  she  hears  the  tread 

Of  the  watchman  on  his  beat. 

Onward,   ay,  onward  still, 

Far  past  the  weary  town, 
Till  languor  doth  seize  on  her  feeble  knees, 

And  the  heavy  hands  hang  down. 


1 84  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

But  bravely   she   struggles  on, 

Breasting  the   cold,    dank  rain, 
And,  heavy  and  chill,  the  mist  from  the  hill 

Sweeps  down  upon  the  plain. 

Hark  !  far  behind  she  hears 

A  dull  and  muffled  tramp  ; 
But  before  her  the  gleam  of  the  watch-fire's  beam 

Shines  out  from  the   Southern  camp. 

She  hears  the  sentry's  challenge, 

Her  work  of  love  is  done  ; 
She  has  fought  a  good  fight,  and  on  Fame's 
proud  height 

Hath  a  crown  of  glory  won. 

Oh,   they  tell  of  a  Tyrol  maiden, 

Who  saved  from  a  ruthless  foe 
Her  own  fair  town,   'mid  its  mountains  brown, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

And  I've  read  in  tales  heroic 

How  a  noble   Scottish  maid 
Her  own  life  gave,  her  king  to  save 

From  foul  assassin's  blade. 


LAND   OF   THE   SOUTH.  185 

But  if  these,   on  the  rolls  of  honor, 

Shall  live  in  lasting  fame, 
Oh,  close  beside,  in  grateful  pride, 

We'll  write  this  matron's  name. 

And  when  our  fair-haired  children 

Shall  cluster  round  our  knee, 
With  wondering  gaze,  as  we  tell  of  the  days 

When   we  swore  that  we  would   be  free, 

We'll  tell  them  the  thrilling  story, 

And  we'll  say  to  each  childish  heart, 

"By  this  gallant  deed,   at  thy  country's  need, 
Be  ready  to  do  thy  part." 

Southern  Field  and  Fireside. 


LAND   OF   THE   SOUTH. 

BY    A.    F.    LEONARD. 
AIR—  "  Friend  of  my  Soul." 

LAND  of  the  South  !  the  fairest  land 

Beneath  Columbia's  sky  ! 
Proudly  her  hills  of  freedom  stand, 

Her  plains  in  beauty  lie. 


1 86  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Her  dotted  fields,  her  traversed  streams 
Their  annual  wealth  renew. 

Land  of  the  South !  in  brightest  dreams 
No  dearer  spot  we  view. 

Men  of  the  South  !  a  free-born  race, 

They  vouch  a  patriot  line  ; 
Ready  the  foemen's  van  to  face, 

And  guard  their  country's  shrine. 
By  sire  and  son  a  haloing  light 

Through  time  is  borne  along — 
They  "  nothing  ask  but  what  is  right, 

And  yield  to  nothing  wrong." 

Fair  of  the  South !  rare  beauty's  crown 

Ye  wear  with  matchless  grace ; 
No  classic  fair  of  old  renown 

Deserve  a  higher  place. 
Your  vestal  robes  alike  become 

The  palace  and  the  cot ; 
Wives,  mothers,  daughters  !  every  home 

Ye  make  a  cherished  spot. 

Flag  of  the  South!  aye,  fling  its  folds 

Upon  the  kindred  breeze  ; 
Emblem  of  dread  to  tyrant  holds — 

Of  freedom  on  the  seas. 


LAND   OF   THE   SOUTH.  l8/ 

Forever  may  its  stars  and  stripes 

In  cloudless  glory  wave  ; 
Red,  white,  and  blue — eternal  types 

Of  nations  free  and  brave ! 

States  of  the  South  !  the  patriot's  boast ! 

Here  equal  laws  have  sway; 
Nor  tyrant  lord,  nor  despot  host, 

Upon  the  weak  may  prey. 
Then  let.  them  rule  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  crown  the  queenly  isle — 
Union  of  love  and  liberty, 

'Neath  Heaven's  approving  smile ! 

God  of  the  South  !  protect  this  land 

From  false  and  open  foes  ! 
Guided  by  Thine  all-ruling  hand, 

In  vain  will  hate  oppose. 
So  mote  the  ship  of  State  move  on 

Upon  the  unfathomed  sea ; 
Gallantly  o'er  its  surges  borne, 

The  bulwark  of  the  free. 


1 88  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET! 

BY    JAS.    R.    RANDALL. 

BY  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash, 

The  tyrant's  war-shout  comes, 
Along  with  the  cymbal's  fitful  clash, 

And  the  growl  of  his  sullen  drums. 
We  hear  it  !  we  heed  it,  with  vengeful  thrills, 

And  we  shall  not  forgive  or  forget ; 
There's  faith  in  the  streams,  there's  hope  in  the 
hills, 

There's  life  in  the  old  land  yet! 

Minions  !  we  sleep,  but  we  are  not  dead ; 

We    are   crushed,   we    are    scourged,   we    are 

scarred  ; 
We  crouch — 'tis  to  welcome  the  triumph  tread 

Of  the  peerless  BEAUREGARD. 
Then  woe  to  your  vile,  polluting  horde, 

When  the  Southern  braves  are  met ; 
There's  faith  in  the  victor's  stainless  sword, 

There's  life  in  the  old  land  yet ! 

Bigots !  ye  quell  not  the  valiant  mind, 
With  the  clank  of  an  iron  chain, 


THERE'S  LIFE  IN   THE   OLD  LAND   YET!  189 

The  spirit  of  freedom  sings  in  the  wind, 
O'er  Merryman,   Thomas^  and  Kane  y 

And  we,  though  we  smite  not,  are  not  thralls, 
Are  piling  a  gory  debt  ; 

While  down  by  McHenry's  dungeon-walls 
There's  life  in  the  old  land  yet ! 

Our  women  have  hung  their  harps  away, 

And  they  scowl  on  your  brutal  bands, 
While  the  nimble  poignard  dares  the  day, 

In  their  dear  defiant  hands. 
They  will  strip  their  tresses  to  string  our  bows, 

Ere  the  Northern  sun  is  set  ; 
There's  faith  in  their  unrelenting  woes, 

There's  life  in  the  old  land  yet  ! 

There's  life,  though  it  throbbeth  in  silent  veins, 

'Tis  vocal  without  noise, 
It  gushed  o'er  Manassas's  solemn  plains, 

From  the  blood  of  the  MARYLAND  BOYS  ! 
That  blood  shall  cry  aloud,  and  rise 

With  an  everlasting  threat  ; 

By  the  death  of  the  brave,  by  the   God  in  the 
skies. 

There's  life  in  the  old  land  yet ! 


SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE   MEN. 

BY    MAURICE    BELL. 

IN  the  dusk  of  the  forest  shade 

A  sallow  and  dusty  group  reclined  ; 
Gallops  a  horseman  up  the  glade — 
" Where  will  I  your  leader  find? 
Tidings  I  bring  from  the  morning's  scout — 
I've  borne   them  o'er  mound,  and   moor,  and 

fen." 
"  Well,  sir,  stay  not  hereabout, 

Here  are  only  a  few  of  '  the  men.' 

"Here  no  collar  has  bar  or  star, 

No  rich  lacing  adorns  a  sleeve  ; 
Further  on  our  officers  are, 

Let  them  your  news  receive. 
Higher  up,  on  the  hill  up  there, 

Overlooking  this  shady  glen, 
There  are  their  quarters — don't  stop  here, 

We  are  only  some  of  'the  men.' 

"  Yet  stay,  courier,  if  you  bear 

Tidings  that  the  fight  is  near, 
Tell  them  we're  ready,  and  that  where 

They  wish  us  to  be  we'll  soon  appear ; 


THE  MEN.  191 

Tell  them  only  to  let  us  know 

Where  to  form  our  ranks,  and  when ; 

And  we'll  teach  the  vaunting  foe 

That  they've  met  a  few  of  c  the  men/ 

"We're  the  men,  though  our  clothes  are  worn — 

We're  the  men,  though  we  wear  no  lace — 
We're  the  men,  who  the  foe  have  torn, 

And  scattered  their  ranks  in  dire  disgrace  ; 
We're  the  men  who  have  triumphed  before — 

We're  the  men  who  will  triumph  again  ; 
For  the  dust,  and  the  smoke,  and  the   cannon's 
roar, 

And  the  clashing  bayonets — 'we're  the  men? 

"Ye  who  sneer  at  the  battle-scars, 

Of  garments  faded,  and  soiled  and  bare, 
Yet  who  have  for  the  *  stars  and  bars ' 

Praise,  and  homage,  and  dainty  fare; 
Mock  the  wearers  and  pass  them  on, 

Refuse  them  kindly  word,  and  then 
Know,  if  your  freedom  is  ever  won 

By  human  agents — these  are  the  men  /  " 


SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE   CONFEDERATE   FLAG. 

BY    J.    R.    BARRICK. 

FLAG  of  the  South  !  Flag  of  the  free  ! 

Thy  stars  shall  cheer  each  eye, 
Thy  folds  a  sacred  banner  be, 

To  all  beneath  our  sky; 
From  where  the  blue  Ohio  flows, 

Far  to  the  sea-gulfs  stream, 
Borne  by  each  gentle  breath  that  blows, 

Thy  hues  shall  flush  and  gleam. 

Flag  of  the  South  !  Flag  of  the  free ! 

Type  of  a  new  estate, 
Thy  folds  shall  wave  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  heart  and  home  elate  ; 
At  thy  approach  shall  tyrants  quail 

And  despots,  trembling,  flee  ; 
Nor  wrong  thy  sway  of  right  assail — 

Nought  mar  thy  liberty. 

Flag  of  the  South !  Flag  of  the  free  ! 

Bright  symbol  of  a  land 
Wrung  from  the  grasp  of  tyranny, 

Ere  fettered  heart  and  hand ; 


THE   CONFEDERATE  FLAG.  193 

Freedom  fixed  in  thy  firm  embrace, 

A  home  for  age  shall  find, 
Linking  the  high  hopes  of  our  race 

With  the  grand  march  of  mind. 

Flag  of  the  South !  Flag  of  the  free ! 

The  one  to  which  we  clung 
In  years  agone,  hath  ceased  to  be 

The  pride  on  which  we  hung  ; 
Long  trampled  in  the  dust,  that  flag 

Hath  lost  the  charm  it  bore  ; 
No  longer  vale,  and  glen,  and  crag, 

Swell  with  its  praise  of  yore. 

Flag  of  the  South !  Flag  of  the  free ! 

Type  of  the  Land  of  Flowers  ; 
Thy  stars  shall  light  our  victory 

O'er  all  contending  powers; 
Where  law  and  order  still   shall  reign, 

Thou  shalt  a  signal  be 
To  man,  that  he  may  still  attain 

The  boon  of  Liberty  ! 
GLASGOW,  KY. 


IQ4  SONGS  OF    THE    SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 


' 


"  STONEWALL   JACKSON'S   WAY." 

COME,  stack  arms,  men !  Pile  on  the  rails, 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright ; 
No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song 

Of  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

We  see  him  now — the  old  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew, 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile,  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "Blue-Light  Elder"  knows  'em  well; 
Says  he,  "That's  Banks— he's  fond  of  shell; 
Lord  save  his  soul !  we'll  give  him "  well, 

That's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Silence !  ground  arms  !  kneel  all  !  caps  off  ! 

Old  Blue-Light's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention !  it's  his  way. 


"STONEWALL  JACKSON'S    WAY?        IpS 

Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God — 
"  Lay  bare  thine  arm,  stretch  forth  thy  rod  ! 
Amen!"     That's  "Stonewall's  way." 

He's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in  ! 

Steady !  the  whole  brigade  ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off — we'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade  ! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn? 
"  Quick-step  !  we're  with  him  before  dawn  ! " 

That's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning,  and  by  George  ! 
Here's  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Yankees,  whipped  before  ; 
"  Bay'nets  and  grape  !  "  hear  Stonewall  roar  ; 
"  Charge,  Stuart  !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score  !  " 

Is  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Ah,  maiden  !  wait,  and  watch,  and  yearn 
For  news  of  Stonewall's  band  ! 


196  SOATGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Ah  !  widow,  read  with  eyes  that  burn, 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 
Ah  !  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on  ! 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn. 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

That  gets  in  "  Stonewall's  way." 


GONE   TO   THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

BY    JOHN    ANTROBUR. 

THE  reaper  has  left  the  field, 

The  mower  has  left  the  plain  ; 
And  the  reaper's  hook,  and  the  mower's  scythe, 

Are  changed  to  the  sword  again  ; 
For  the  voice  of  a  hundred  years  ago, 
When  Freedom  struck  her  mightiest  blow, 

Thrills  every  heart  and  brain. 

The  way-side  mill  is  still, 

And  the  wheel  drips  all  alone, 
For  the  miller's  brother,  and  son,  and  sire, 

And  the  miller's  self  have  gone  ; 


GONE    TO    THE  BATTLE-FIELD.         1 97 

And  their  wives  and  daughters,  tarrying  still, 
With  smiles  and  tears  about  the  mill, 
Wave,  wave  their  heroes  on. 

The  grain  is  full  and  ripe, 

And  the  harvest-moon  is  nigh, 
But  the  farmer's  son  is  among  the  slain, 

And  the  father  heard  the  cry; 
And  his  ancient  eyes  flashed  fires  of  old, 
His  hoary  head  rose  strong  and  bold, 

As,  wild,  he  hurried  by. 

The  corn  is  yet  a-field, 

But  many  a  stalk  is  red  ; 
Yet  not  with  the  autumn-tassel  stained, 

But  the  blood  of  heroes  shed  ; 
And  their  blood  cries  out  from  heaps  of  slain  : 
Oh,  brothers,  leave  the  sheaves  of  grain  ; 

On,  to  the  fields  of  the  dead  ! 

By  every  quiet  farm, 

Whence  father  and  son  had  gone, 
The  fairest  daughters  of  the  land, 

Brave-hearted,  cheer  us  on, 
With  the  tender  smiles  that  shelter   tears, 
And  words  to  thrill  a  soldier's  ears, 

When  bloody  fields  are  won. 


198  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Scarcely  the  form  of  man 

Was  seen  on  the  long  highway  ; 

But  patriot  age,  whose  withered  hands 
Stretched  feebly  up  to  pray, 

And  children  whose  voices  haunt  us  still, 

Gathered  on  every  knoll  and  hill, 
Cheering  us  on  our  way. 

Yonder,  with  feeble  limbs, 

A  matron,  with  silver  hair, 
Knelt,  trembling,  down  on  the  soldier's  path, 

And  breathed  to  heaven  a  prayer, 
With  quivering  lips,  with  streaming  eyes  : 
"  O  God  !  preserve  these  gallant  boys  ; 

In  battle,  be  Thou  there !  " 

O,  soldiers  !  such  as  these 

Like  household  memories  come  ; 

For  a  thousand  prayers  ascend  to-day 
From  those  we  left  at  home ; 

For  the  red,  red  field  to-night  may  be 

Our  couch,  our  grave — while   Victory 
Shall  shout  above  our  tomb. 

In  battle's  bloody  hour 
These  pictures  shall  arise, 


RE-ENLISTMENT.  199 

Of  mothers,  sisters,  wives,  and  homes, 

And  red  and  streaming  eyes  ; 
And  every  arm  shall  stronger  be, 
For  home,  for  God,  for  liberty, 

And  strike,  while  mercy  dies. 

HEADQUARTERS,  ^th  Regt.   Virginia   Voh. 


RE-ENLISTMENT. 

BY    MRS.    MARGARITA    J.    CANEDO. 

WHAT  !  shall  we  now  throw  down  the  blade, 

And  doff  the  helmet  from  our  brows  ? 
Now   see  our  holy  cause  betrayed, 

And  recreant  prove  to  all  our  vows? 
When  first  we  drew  these  patriot  swords, 

"  A  nation's  freedom  !  "  was  the  cry ; 
Our  faith  was  pledged  in  these  proud  words, 

And  heaven  has  sealed  the  oath  on  high. 

Since  then  on  dear-bought  battle-plains 
We've  seen  our  martyr  brethren  die, 

While  on  the  soil  that  drank  those  stains, 
Their  native  earth  where  now  they  lie, 


200  SONGS  OF    THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

The  foe  now  treads — th'  exulting  foe, 
And  desecrates  the  hero-graves. 

Say,  can  we  peace  or  honor  know 

While  there  the  accursed  banner  waves  ? 

Dear  are  our  homes,  that  smile  afar ; 

Oft  in  the  weary  soldier's   dreams, 
While  resting  from  the  toils  of  war, 

He  sees  the  light  that  round  them  beams. 
Dear  are  the  loved  and  lovely  maids 

Shrined  in  the  patriot  soldier's  heart ; 
Yet,  while  the  foe  our  land  invades, 

In  vain  the  longing  tear  may  start. 

No!  let  the  despot's  hireling  band, 
Who  feel  not  honor — know  not  faith, 

Who  war  not  for  their  native  land, 
Fly  trembling  from  a  dreaded  death. 

Our  lives  are  to  our  country  pledged, 
'Until  her  last  red  field  is  won  ; 

For  "liberty  or  death"  is  waged 

The  war  where  fights  her  faithful  son. 

Then  plant  that  flag-staff  in  the  earth, 
And  round  it  rally,  every  son 


SOUTHLAND.  2OI 

Who  loves  the  State  that  gave  him  birth, 
Till  her  proud  sovereignty  be  won. 

What  though  our  limbs  be  weak  with  toil, 
What  though  we  bear  full  many  a  scar; 

Huzza.  I  here's  to  our  native  soil, 
We  re-enlist,  and  for  the  war ! 


SOUTHLAND. 

THE   PRIZE   SONG.* 

THEY  sing  of  the  East, 

With  its  flowery  feast, 

And  clime  of  the  North,  with  its  mountains  of 
snow  ; 

But  give  me  the  land 

Where  the  breezes  blow  bland, 
O'er  realms  of  magnolia  and  myrtle  below. 

*  The  publisher  of  "  The  Southern  Soldier's  Prize  Song 
ster/'  Mr.  W.  F.  Wisely,  of  Mobile,  Alabama,  "  determined  to 
use  his  efforts  to  produce  a  collection  of  original  songs,  solely 
by  Southern  writers,  "  offered  a  premium  of  fifty  dollars  "  for 
the  best  song  suited  to  the  present  time.  A  committee  of  three 
gentlemen  (Rev.  Dr.  Pierce,  Hon.  Percy  Walker,  and  G.  Y. 
Overall,  Esq.)  were  appointed  to  make  the  award.  Near 
thirty  pieces  were  submitted  in  competition,  most  of  them 


202  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

The  land  of  the  South, 
The  fair  sunny  South, 
The  flower-crowned  South, 
In  its  grandeur  for  me. 

Her  sons  are  aye  brave, 
And  no  chains  can  enslave, 

Though    countless   the    hordes   of   their   foemen 
may  be ; 

Ah  !  see,  even  now, 
As   with  battle-stained  brow, 
They  vanquish   the  Northmen  on  land   and   on 
sea  ! 

The  land  of  the   South, 
The  young  gallant  South, 
The  invincible  South, 
In  its  valor  for  me. 

possessing  high  literary  merit.  After  much  deliberation,  the 
committee  selected  the  piece  entitled  "  Southland,"  as  the  most 
meritorious.  The  author's  name  was  not  given,  he  only  re 
questing  in  his  note  that  the  money,  if  awarded  him,  should 
be  paid  over  for  the  benefit  of  our  necessitous  soldiers.  This 
modesty  will  add  to  the  attractiveness  of  his  piece,  which  is 
the  first  in  the  present  volume." — Preface  to  "  The  Southern 
Soldier's  Prize  Songster,  containing  Martial  and  Patriotic 
Pieces  (chiefly  original]  applicable  to  the  present  war.  Mo 
bile,  Ala.  :  IV.  F.  Wisely,  No.  38  St.  Michael  St.,  1864." 


SOUTHLAND.  203 

Her  daughters  are  fair 
As  the  pure  lilies  there, 

And  cheer  her  brave  soldiers  for  freedom  to  die ; 
Their  smiles  are  the  light 
Of  the  war-clouded  night, 

Their  tears  are  sweet   dew-drops  distilled   from 
the  sky. 

The  land  of  the  South, 
The  sweet  rosy  South, 
The  starry-gemmed  South, 
In  its  beauty  for  me  ! 

In  green  blossomed  dales, 
And  in  violet  vales, 

And  fields  white  with  cotton,  its  dwellings  once 
stood ; 

The  spoilers  now  seek 
Their  vile  vengeance  to  wreak, 
And  darken  this  Eden  with  ashes  and  blood  ! 
The  land  of  the  South, 
The  opulent  South, 
The  long-plundered  South, 
In  its  richness  for  me  ! 

Oh,  who  would  not  stand 
With  his  life  in  his  hand, 


204  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

To  shield  such  a  land  from  the  feet  of  the  foe  ? 
God  made  it  thus  free, 
And  oh,  perish  must  we, 
Before  it  can  be  in  bondage  laid  low  ! 
The  land  of  the  South, 
The  proud  sovereign  South, 
The  God-shielded  South, 
In  its  freedom  for  me ! 


BEYOND  THE  POTOMAC. 

BY   PAUL    H.    HAYNE.* 

THEY  slept  on  the  fields  which  their    valor   had 

won  ! 

But  arose  with  the  first  early  blush  of  the  sun, 
For  they  knew  that  a  great  deed  remained  to  be 

done, 

When  they  passed  o'er  the  River. 


*  This  piece  was  originally  published  in  the  "  Richmond 
Whig "  at  the  time  of  "  Stonewall "  Jackson's  last  descent 
upon  Maryland. 


BEYOND    THE  POTOMAC.  2OJ 

They  rose   with   the   sun,  and  caught   life    from 

his  light — 

Those  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in  fight — 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in  the  joy  of  their 

might, 

Marching  swift  for  the  River. 

On  !  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the 

hills— 

On !  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills — 
And  the  one  heart  of  thousands   grows  buoyant 

and  thrills, 

At  the  thought  of  the  River. 

On !  the  sheen  of  their  swords  !  the  fierce  gleam 

of  their  eyes, 

It  seemed  as  on  earth  a  new  sunlight  would  rise, 
And,  king-like,  flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the  skies, 
O'er  the  path  to  the  River. 

But  their  banners,  shot-scarred,  and  all  darkened 

with  gore, 
On  a  strong   wind  of  morning    streamed    wildly 

before, 
Like  the  wings  of  Death-angels  swept  fast  to  the 

shore, 

The  green  shore  of  the  River. 


206  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

As  they  march — from   the   hill-side,  the   hamlet, 

the  stream — 
Gaunt  throngs,  whom  the  Foeman  had  manacled, 

teem, 

Like  men  just  roused  from  some  terrible  dream, 
To  pass  o'er  the  River. 

They  behold  the  broad  banners,  blood-darkened, 

yet  fair, 

And  a  moment  dissolves  the  last  spell  of  despair, 
While  a  peal  as  of  victory  swells  on  the  air, 

Rolling  out  to  the  River. 

And  that  cry,  with  a  thousand  strange  echoings 

spread, 
Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  seemed  stirred  in   their 

bed, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  passion    surged   up  from 

the  dead — 

Ay  !  press  on  to  the  River. 

On !  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the 

hills, 

On !  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills, 
And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoyant, 

and  thrills, 

As  they  pause  by  the  River. 


BEYOND    THE  POTOMAC.  2O? 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland,  haggard  and  worn, 
At  that  sight,  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect  forlorn, 
And  she  turned  on  the  Foeman  full  statured  in 
scorn, 

Pointing  stern  to  the  River. 

And  Potomac  flowed  calm,  scarcely  heaving  her 

breast, 

With  her  low-lying  billows  all  bright  in  the  west, 
For  the  hand  of  the  Lord  lulled  the  waters  to  rest 

Of  the  fair  rolling  River. 

Passed  !  passed  !  the  glad  thousands  march  safe 

through  the  tide. 
(Hark,  Despot !  and  hear  the  wild  knell  of  your 

pride, 

Ringing  weird-like  and  wild,  pealing  up  from  the 
side 

Of  the  calm  flowing  River.) 

'Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty  the  Tyrant  shall 

fall, 

Vain  !  vain !  to  his  God  swells  a  desolate  call, 
For  his  grave  has  been  hollowed,  and  woven  his 

pall, 

Since  they  passed  o'er  the  River. 


208  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
TRUE    TO   THE    GRAY. 

BY    PEARL    RIVERS. 

I  CAN  not  listen  to  your  words,  the  land  is  long 

and  wide  ; 
Go  seek  some  happy  Northern   girl  to   be   your 

loving  bride  ; 
My  brothers  they  were  soldiers — the  youngest  of 

the  three 
Was  slain  while  fighting   by  the  side  of    gallant 

FITZHUGH  LEE  ! 

They  left  his  body  on  the  field  (your  side  the 
day  had  won), 

A  soldier  spurn'd  him  with  his  foot—yvu  might 
have  been  the  one ; 

My  lover  was  a  soldier — he  belonged  to  GOR 
DON'S  band  ; 

A  saber  pierced  his  gallant  heart — yours  might 
have  been  the  hand. 

He  reel'd  and  fell,  but  was  not  dead,  a  horse 
man  spurred  his  steed, 

And  trampled  on  the  dying  brain— you  may  have 
done  the  deed  : 


TRUE    TO    THE    GRAY.  2Og 

I  hold  no  hatred  in  my  heart,  no  cold,  unright 
eous  pride, 

For  many  a  gallant  soldier  fought  upon  the  other 
side  : 

But  still  I  can  not  kiss  the  hand  that  smote  my 

country  sore, 
Nor  love  the  foes  who  trampled  down  the  colors 

that  she  bore ; 
Between  my  heart  and  yours  there  rolls  a   deep 

and  crimson  tide — 
My  brother's  and  my  lover's  blood  forbid  me  be 

your  bride. 

The  girls  who  loved  the  boys  in  gray — the  girls 

to  country  true — 
May  ne'er  in  wedlock  give  their  hands  to  those 

who  wore  the  blue. 


2IO  SOATGS  OF    THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
TELL   THE  BOYS  THE  WAR  IS   ENDED. 

BY    EMILY    J.    MOORE. 

While  in  the  first  ward  of  the  Quintard  Hospital,  Rome, 
Georgia,  a  young  soldier,  from  the  Eighth  Arkansas  Regiment, 
who  had  been  wounded  at  Murfreesboro ',  called  me  to  his 
bedside.  As  I  approached  I  saw  that  he  was  dying,  and 
when  I  bent  over  him  he  was  just  able  to  whisper,  "  Tell  the 
boys  the  war  is  ended." 

"TELL  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 

These  were  all  the  words  he  said  ; 
"Tell  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 

In  an  instant  more  was  dead. 
Strangely  bright,  serene,  and  cheerful 

Was  the  smile  upon  his  face, 
While  the  pain,  of  late  so  fearful, 

Had  not  left  the  slightest  trace. 

"Tell  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 

And  with  heavenly  visions  bright 
Thoughts  of  comrades  loved  were  blended, 

As  his  spirit  took  its  flight. 
"  Tell  the  boys  the  war  is  ended/' 

"  Grant,  O  God,  it  may  be  so," 
Was  the  prayer  which  then  ascended, 

In  a  whisper  deep,  though  low. 


BURN   THE   COTTON.  211 

"Tell  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 

And  his  warfare  then  was  o'er, 
As  by  angel  bands  attended, 

He  departed  from  earth's  shore. 
Bursting  shells  and  cannons  roaring 

Could  not  rouse  him  by  their  din; 
He  to  better  worlds  was  soaring, 

Far  from   war,   and  pain,  and  sin. 


BURN   THE    COTTON. 

BY    ESTELLE. 

BURN  the  cotton  !  burn  the  cotton  ! 

Let  the  solemn  triumph  rise  ; 
Fanned  by  Freedom's  breath,  its  white  wing 

Spreads  her  banner  to  the  skies. 
"Melt  the  bells"  is  but  re-echoed 

O'er  our  valley's  gathered  pride, 
Lay  the  cotton  on  the  altar 

Where  our  loved  have  nobly  died. 

Burn  the  cotton  !  burn  the  cotton ! 
Does  this  sacrifice  compare 


212  SONGS  OF  THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

With  the  battle-field  red  flowing 

With  the  brave  hearts  offered  there  ? 

They  no  more  shall  strike  for  Freedom, 
Never  worship  at  her  shrine — 

To  hurl  back  the  fell  invader, 
To  avenge  them — it  is  thine. 

Burn  the  cotton  !  burn  the  cotton  ! 

Down  the  Mississippi's  tide 
Let  it  thunder,  till  its  valleys 

Catch  the  echo,  far  and  wide — 
Frowning  in  its  wrath,  it  rises, 

Spreads  its  dark  wing  o'er  the  land, 
Vetoes,  in  its  swelling  fury, 

Gain,  to  lure  the  robber  band. 

Burn  the  cotton  !  burn  the  cotton ! 

Pile  the  white  fleece  high  and  higher, 
Till  the  heavens  reflect  the  glory 

Kindled  by  the  patriot's  fire. 
This  shall  teach  the  haughty  foeman, 

Startle  him  too  late,  to  find 
Chains  were  never  made  for  freemen, 

Chains  the  Southern  heart   to  bind. 


BURN   THE   COTTON.  213 

Burn  the  cotton !   burn  the  cotton  ! 

Flaming  sparks,  instead  of  seed, 
Shall  be  sown  in  death  and  terror 

To  the  mongrel  Yankee  breed  ; 
And  the  crowns  who  nod  attendance 

On  the  treacherous  Federal's  lure, 
Feel  too  late  the  want  and  ruin, 

Unjust  favor  can  not  cure. 

Burn  the  cotton !  burn  the  cotton  ! 

Let  the  record  boldly  stand  ; 
Not  a  bale  for  "  filthy  lucre  "— 

All  for  Freedom  to  our  land. 
Burn  the  cotton !  burn  the  cotton  ! 
{  From  its  ashes  there  shall  spring 
Heralds  of  a  new-born  nation, 

Claiming  still  that  "  Cotton's  King !  " 
MEMPHIS,  TENN.,  May  16,  1862. 


214  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

THE   PRINTERS    OF   VIRGINIA   TO 
"OLD   ABE." 

BY    HARRY    C.    TREAKLE. 

THOUGH  we're  exempt,  we're  not  the  metal 

To  keep  in  when  duty  calls  ; 
But  onward  we  will  press,  to  settle 

This  knotty  case,  with  leaden  balls ; 
For  our  dear  old  mother  State,  the  fount 

From  which  we  each  our  life  did  take, 
Is  locked  up  by  a  Vandal  horde, 

And  the  honor  of  the  craft's  at  stake. 

For  lean-faced  Lincoln's  after  us — 

His  slim  shanks  moving  like  a  scout  ; 
But  long  before  his  job  is  done, 

He'll  find  that  all  his  quads  are  out. 
For  with  Lee  our  headline — worthy  guide — 

We,  £•#/&>>- slaves  will  never  be, 
But  still  press  onward  by  his  side, 

For  that  fat  take,  sweet  liberty ! 

Soon  Abe  will  find  what  he's  about 
Will  cost  him  such  a  pile  of  rocks, 

Before  his  cherished  work  is  out> 
He'll  have  no  sorts  in  any  box  ! 


THE  PRINTERS  OF    VIRGINIA.         21$ 

For  his  bank  is  now  so  very  low, 

He  scarce  can  chase  up  quoins  to  pay 

The  hired  scum,  the  foreign  foe, 

Who  comes  to  steal  our  rights  away. 

And  his  chums  now  see,  by  his  foul  matter, 

To  set  clean  proof  he  ne'er  was  cast, 
And   fears  are  felt  that  the  gaunt  old  ratter 

Will  go  broadside  to  hell  at  last, 
Where  his  friend,  the  devil,  will  welcome  him, 

With  accents  sweet — to  his  bosom  fly, 
Revise  his  foul  proof-sheets  once  more, 

And  knock  his  naked  form  in  pi. 

And  so  to  rush  the  base  old  monk  along, 

And  bring  the  quiet  soon  about, 
We'll  swell  our  lines  to  columns  strong, 

And  give  no  quarters  till  he's  out ; 
For  Southern  jours,  now  take  a  stand, 

Their  foremen  marshaled  at  their  head, 
And  each  with  shooting-stick  in  hand, 

Resolved  they  will  his  matter  lead. 

And  while  a  foe  is  in  the  field, 

Our  hands  still  steady,  our  leaders  cool, 

Death  we'll  em-brace  before  we'll  yield  ; 
But,  by  God's  help,   we'll  stick  and  rule, 


2l6  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

And  when,   in   after  years  to'  come, 
Our  history's  read  by  youth  and  sage, 

They'll  make  a  side-note  of  "  well   done," 
On  this  our  volume's  brightest  page. 
NORFOLK,  VA.,  April  4,  1862. 


THE    MARSEILLES   HYMN. 

Translated  and  adapted  as  an  ode, 
BY    B.    F.    PORTER,    OF    ALABAMA. 

SONS  of  the  South,,  arise  !  awake !  be  free  ! 

Behold !   the  day  of  Southern  glory  comes. 
See  where  the  blood-stained  flag  of  tyranny 

Pollutes  the  air  that  breathes  around  your  homes. 
Rise  !  Southern  men,  from  villages  and  farms, 
Cry  vengeance  !    Oh  !  shall  worse  than  pirate 

slaves 
Strangle  your  children  in  their  mothers'  arms, 

And  spit  on  dust  that  fills  your  fathers'  graves  ? 
To    arms !   sons    of  the    South  !     Come    like    a 

mountain-flood  ; 

March   on  !  let  every  vale  o'erflow  with  the  in 
vaders'  blood. 


THE  MARSEILLES  HYMN.  21 7 

What  would  these  men,  whose  lives  black  treach 
ery  stains — 

Conspirators,  to  plunder  long  endeared  ? 

For  whom  these  vile,  these  ignominious  chains — 

These  fetters,  for  our  brother's  hands  prepared  ? 

Sons  of  the  South,  for  us  !    Oh  !  bitter  thought ! 

What    transports    should    our    burning    souls 

inspire  ! 
Shall  Southern  men,  by  mercenaries  bought, 

Be  sold  to  vassalage,  from  son  to  sire  ? 
To    arms  !    sons    of    the    South  !    Come    like    a 

mountain-flood  ; 

March   on  !  let  every  vale  o'erflow  with  the  in 
vaders'  blood. 

What  !  shall  this  groveling  race,  who  cringe  for 

gold, 
Make    laws    for   Southern   men,    on    Southern 

soil? 

Shall  these  degenerate  hordes,  to  avarice  sold, 
Crush    freedom's   sons,    and    Freedom's   altars 

spoil  ? 

Great  God  !  oh  !   by  these  iron-shackled  hands, 
Ne'er  shall  our  necks  beneath   their  yokes  be 
led. 


2l8  S01VGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Of  despots  such  as  these,  shall  Southern  bands 
Ne'er  own  the  mastery,  till  every  heart  is 
dead. 

To  arms  !  sons  of  the  South !  Come  like  a 
mountain-flood  ; 

March  on  !  let  every  vale  overflow  with  the  in 
vaders'  blood. 

Tremble,  O  tyrants  !  and  you,  perfidious  tools, 

Of  every  race  and  party  long  the  scorn ! 
Tremble,  ye  base,  ye  parricidal  fools, 

The  doom  of  treachery  is  already  born. 
All  Southern  men  are  heroes  in  the  fray  ; 

If  fall  they  must,  o'erpowered  in  the  field, 
Long  as  the  race  endures,  each  child  for  aye 

Shall  from  his  cradle  strike  the  sounding  shield. 
To   arms  !    sons   of    the     South !    Come   like   a 

mountain-flood  ; 

March  on  !  let  every  vale  o'erflow  with  the  in 
vaders'  blood. 

Sons  of  the   South  !  magnanimous  in  war, 
Strike  or  withhold,  as  honor  bids,  your  blows. 

Spare,  if  you  will,  those  victims  from  afar, 
Who,  ignorant  of  liberty,  become  your  foes. 


THE  MARSEILLES  HYMN.  2IQ 

But  for  these  bastards  of  a  free-born  bed, 

These  parasites,  in  Freedom's  arms  caressed, 
These  beasts,  by  sin  and  spoil  and  rapine  bred, 
Who    dig  for   blood,    deep    in   their   mother's 

breast, 
To   arms !    sons   of    the   South  !     Come    like    a 

mountain-flood  ; 

March  on  !  let  every  vale  o'erflow  with  the  in 
vaders'  blood. 

O  sacred  love  of  country  !     For  the  South, 

Come,  brave  avengers,  rush  to  every  field. 
Let  cries  of  <4  Liberty  "  from  every  mouth 

Sound  the  alarm,  till  the  base  traitors  yield. 
Under  our  glorious  flag,  let  Victory 

Respond  to  Freedom's  call.     Wipe  off  the  stain 
Of  the  invaders'  feet.     Dying,  they  will  see 

Thy  triumph,  and  the  land  redeemed  again. 
To    arms !    sons    of  the   South  !     Come    like    a 

mountain-flood  ; 

March  on  !  let  every  vale  o'erflow  with  the  in 
vaders'  blood. 

Nashville  Gazette. 


220  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

MONODY   ON    THE    DEATH   OF   GEN 
ERAL   STONEWALL   JACKSON. 

BY    THE    EXILE. 

AYE,  toll!  toll!  toll! 

Toll  the  funeral  bell  ! 
And  let  its  mournful  echoes  roll 
From  sphere  to  sphere,  from  pole  to  pole, 
O'er  the  flight  of  the  greatest,  kingliest  soul 

That  ever  in  battle  fell. 

Yes,  weep !  weep  !  weep  ! 

Weep  for  the  hero  fled ! 
For  death,  the  greatest  of  soldiers,  at  last 
Has  over  our  leader  his  black  pall  cast, 
And  from  us  his  noble  form  hath  passed 

To  the  home  of  the  mighty  dead. 

Then  toll !  and  weep !  and  mourn ! 

Mourn  the  fall  of  the  brave  ! 
For  Jackson,  whose  deeds  made  the  nation  proud, 
At  whose  very  name  the  enemy  cowed, 
With  the  "crimson  cross"  for  his  martial  shroud, 

Now  sleeps  his  long  sleep  in  the  grave. 


DEATH  OF  STONEWALL  JACKSON.     221 

His  form  has  passed  away  ; 

His  voice  is  silent  and  still; 
No  more  at  the  head  of  "the  old  brigade," 
The  daring  men  who  were  never  dismayed, 
Will  he  lead  them  to  glory  that  never  can  fade — 

Stonewall  of  the  Iron  Will! 

He  fell  as  a  hero  should  fall  ; 

'Mid  the  thunder  of  war  he  died. 
While  the  rifle  cracked  and  the  cannon  roared, 
And  the  blood  of  the  friend  and  foeman  poured, 
He  dropped  from  his  nerveless  grasp  the  sword 

That  erst  was  the  nation's  pride. 

Virginia,  his  mother,  is  bowed ; 

Her  tread  is  heavy  and  slow. 
From  all  the  South  comes  a  wailing  moan, 
And  mountains  and  valleys  re-echo  the   groan, 
For  the  gallant  chief  of  her  clans  has  flown, 

And  a  nation  is  filled  with  woe. 

Rest,  warrior  !  rest ! 

Rest  in  thy  laureled  tomb  ! 

Thy  mem'ry  shall  live  through  all  of  earth's  years, 
And  thy  name  still  excite  the  despot's  fears, 
While  o'er  thee  shall  fall  a  nation's  tears  ; 

Thy  deeds  shall  not  perish  in  gloom. 


222   SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE    CONFEDERATE    FLAG. 

BY    MRS.    C.    D.  ELDER. 

BRIGHT  banner    of  freedom,  with  pride  I  unfold 

thee  ; 

Fair  flag  of  my  country,  with  love  I  behold  thee, 
Gleaming  above  us,  in  freshness  and  youth, 
Emblem  of  liberty — symbol  of  truth ; 
For  this  flag  of  my  country  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  Southerner's  home  and  the  Southerner's 

grave. 

All  bright  are  the  stars  that  are  beaming  upon  us, 
And  bold  are  the  bars  that  are  gleaming  above 

us; 

The  one  shall  increase  in  their  number  and  light, 
The  other  grow  bolder  in  power  and  might ; 
For  this  flag  of  my  country  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  Southerner's  home  or  the   Southerner's 

grave. 

Those  bars  of  bright  red  show  our  firm  resolution 
To  die,  if  need  be,  shielding  thee  from  pollution  ; 
For  man   in    this   hour   must   give   all  he    holds 
dear, 


THE   SOUTH,  223 

And  woman  her  prayers  and  her  words  of  high 

cheer, 

If  they  wish  this  fair  banner  in  triumph  to  wave 
O'er  the  Southerner's  home  and  the  Southerner's 

grave. 

To  the  great  God  of  battles  we  look  with   reli 
ance; 

On  our  fierce  Northern  foe    with    contempt  and 
defiance  ; 

For  the  South  shall  smile  on  in  her  fragrance  and 
bloom 

When  the  North   is  fast    sinking  in   silence   and 
gloom  ; 

For  the  flag  of  our  country  in  triumph  must  wave 

O'er  the  Southerner's  home  or  the    Southerner's 

grave. 
NEW  ORLEANS,  LA. 


THE   SOUTH. 

BY    CHARLIE    WILDWOOD. 


THE  bright  rose  of  beauty,  unnurtured  by  art, 
And  purity's  lily  doth  thrive  in  thy  heart, 


224  SO.VGS  OF    THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

While  honor  hath  crowned  thee  with  glory's  bright 

ray, 

And  Flora  hath  decked  thee  with  flowers  of  May. 
Oh,  beautiful  South  !  cherished  home  of  my  birth, 
Thou  fairest,  thou  loveliest  land  of  the  earth  ! 
My  heart,  like  the  ivy,  still  clings  unto  thee, 
Oh,  beautiful,  beautiful  land  of  the  free  ! 

Chorus — The  South !  the  South  !  my  own  beau 
tiful  South! 

Land  of  chivalry  !  home  of  liberty ! 
Fondly    I    love    thee,  dear   land  of   the 

South  ! 

Dear  land  of  the  South  !    dear  land    of 
the  South! 

Dear  liberty,  virtue,  and  truth,  most  sublime, 
The  flowers  that  bloom  in  that  sun-smiling  clime, 
And  these  the    base    tyrant    would  crush   to  the 

earth, 

And  mangle  and  bruise  on  the  soil  of  their  birth. 
All  crimson  thy  land,  with  the  life-glowing  flood, 
And  dabble  his  hands  in  thy  heart's  reeking 

blood ! 

But  oh!  by  the  God  of  the  righteous  and  free, 
Bright  region  !  it  never  !  no,  never  !  shall  be. 


THE   SOUTH.  225 

Like  swarms  of  foul  demons,  his  minions   come 

down, 

And  their  war-rusted  weapons  insultingly  frown, 
To  fright  thy  fair  fields  with  their  bloody  alarms, 
And  rob  thee,  dear  land,  of  all  of  thy  charms. 
But  thy  free  spirit  still  rides  on  the  swift  gale, 
Like  the  eagle  that  sweeps  o'er  the  mountain  and 

dale; 
And  thy  sons,  they  rush  forth  with  the  courage 

of  men, 
To  fight,  and  to  bleed,  and  to  conquer  again. 

The  tyrant,  with  shackles,  would  manacle  thee — 
Would  strangle  thy  spirit,  dear  land  of  the  free, 
Would  trample  the  banner  of  right  in  the  dust, 
And  yoke  thee  with  iron,  proud  queen  of  the 

just ! 

But  the  hearts  of  thy  sons,  unappalled  by  a  fear, 
As  their  swords  leap  up  fiercely  and  flame  in  the 

air, 

Now  swear  that  it  never  !  no  !  never  !  shall  be, 
Bright  queen  of  the  lovely !  sweet   home   of  the 

free  ! 

Chorus — The   South  !    the  South,  etc. 
15 


226  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

THE    GIRLS   OF   THE    MONUMENTAL 
CITY. 

WRITTEN    BY    A    CONFEDERATE    PRISONER. 

DAUGHTERS  of  the  sunny  South, 

Where  Freedom  loves  to  dwell, 
How  rare  your  charms,  how  sweet  your  smiles, 

No  mortal  lips  can  tell ; 
Your  native  hills,  the  rippling  rills, 

The  echo  wild  and  free, 
Declare  you  born  to  hate  and  scorn 

All  Northern  tyranny. 

Girls  whose  smiles  are  all  reserved, 

The  Southern  youth  to  bless  ; 
Whose  hearts  are  kept  for  those  who  fight 

For  Freedom's  happiness  ; 
Your  spirits  bold,  so  now  unfold 

What  willingly  you  would  do, 
Where  Yankee  spirit — the  tyrants  might 

Not  wield  against  you. 

For  you  your  loving  brothers  rush 
To  overthrow  the  invader's  might — 

On  martial  field  the  sword  they  wield, 
And  Yankee  cowards  smite. 


THE  GIRLS  OF  THE  MONUMENTAL  CITY.  22 f 

May  heaven  bless,  with  bright  success, 

Each  glorious  Southern  son  ; 
Be  this  your  prayer,  O  maidens  fair ! 

And  our  freedom  will  be  won. 

Southern  girls,  on  this  we've  sworn, 

The  South  must— shall  be  free — 
No  Northern  shackles  will  be  worn  ; 

To  them  we'll  bend  no  knee. 
From  hill  to  hill,  exultant,  shrill, 

Our  battle-cry  rings  forth  : 
Freedom  or  death  on  every  breath, 

And  hatred  to  the  North. 

Cease  not  to  smile,  brave  Southern  girls, 

On  our  efforts  to  be  free — 
Whilst  life  remains,  we'll  struggle  on, 

Till  all  the  world  shall  see 
That  those  who  fight  for  home  and  right 

Can  never  be  enslaved  ; 
Their  blood  may  stain  the  battle-plain; 

Our  country  must  be  saved. 
BALTIMORE,  MD.,  March,  1862. 


228  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

WAR   SONG    OF   THE    PARTISAN 
RANGERS. 

BY    BENJAMIN    F.    PORTER. 
AlR — McGregors  Gathering. 

THE  forests  are  green  by  the  homes  of  the  South, 
But  the  hearth- stones  are  red  with  the  blood  of 

her  youth  ; 

Unfurl  the  black  banner  o'er  mountain  and  vale, 
Let  the  war-cry  of  vengeance  swell  loud  on  the 

gale. 

Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  gather,  gather  ; 
While  there's  leaf  in  the  forest,  and  foam  on 

the  river, 

The    cry    of    the    South    shall    be    Vengeance 
Forever ! 

Each  drop  of  the  blood  of  our  children  they've 

shed, 

Our  foes  shall  atone  for,  in  heaps  of  their  dead ; 
The  signal  for  fight  which  our  forefathers  knew? 
Shall  be  heard  in  their  midst  in  our  vengeful 

halloo. 
Then  gather,  gather,  etc. 


WAR  SONG  OF  THE  PARTISAN  RANGERS.  2  29 

Thro*  their  cities  our  horsemen,  with  sword  and 

with  flame, 

Shall  carry  the  dread  of  the  Southerner's  name ! 
At   the   sound    of   our   bugles   their  strong  men 

shall  quail, 
And  the  cheeks  of  their  wives  and  their  mothers 

turn  pale. 
Then  gather,  gather,  etc. 

They  have  blasted  our  fields,  they  have  slaugh 
tered  our  youth, 

And  dishonored  the  names  of  the  maids  of   the 
South  ; 

But  the  rivers  shall  dry,  and  the  mountains  be  riven, 

Ere  vengeance  be  quenched   or   our   wrongs   be 

forgiven. 
Then  gather,  gather,  etc. 

Then  rally  from  forest  and  rally  from  ford, 
Give  their  homes  to  the  flames,  and   their   sons 

to  the  sword  ; 
While    a   child    shall   be   born  in  the   South,  let 

its  cry 
Be,  "  Death    to    the    Northmen,   and    vengeance 

for  aye  !  " 

Greenville,  Ala.,  Observer. 


230  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE   BAND   IN   THE   PINES. 

BY    JOHN    ESTEN    COOKE.* 

OH,  band  in  the  pine-wood,  cease  ! 

Cease  with  your  splendid  call ; 
The  living  are  brave  and  noble, 

But  the  dead  were  bravest  of  all ! 

They  throng  to  the  martial  summons, 
To  the  loud,  triumphant  strain  ; 

And  the  dear  bright  eyes  of  long-dead  friends 
Come  to  the  heart  again  ! 

They  come  with  the  ringing  bugle, 
And  the  deep  drum's  mellow  roar ; 

Till  the  soul  is  faint  with  longing 
For  the  hands  we  clasp  no  more  ! 

Oh,  band  in  the  pine-woods,  cease ! 

Or  the  heart  will  melt  in  tears, 
For  the  gallant  eyes  and  the  smiling  lips, 

And  the  voices  of  old  years. 

*  Heard  after  Pelham  died. 


SONG  OF  OUR   GLORIOUS  SOUTHLAND. 

SONG   OF   OUR   GLORIOUS   SOUTH 
LAND. 

BY    MRS.    MARY    WARE. 
I. 

OH,  sing  of  our  glorious  Southland, 
The  pride  of  the  golden  sun  ! 

'Tis  the  fairest  land  of  flowers 
The  eye  e'er  looked  upon. 

Sing  of  her  orange  and  myrtle, 
That  glitter  like  gems  above ; 

Sing  of  her  dark-eyed  maidens 
As  fair  as  a  dream  of  love. 

Sing  of  her  flowing  rivers — 

How  musical  their  sound  ! 
Sing  of  her  dark-green  forests, 

The  Indian  hunting-ground. 

Sing  of  the  noble  nation, 
Fierce  struggling  to  be  free; 

Sing  of  the  brave  who  barter 
Their  lives  for  liberty! 


232  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

II. 
Weep  for  the  maid  and  matron 

Who  mourn  their  loved  ones  slain  ; 
Sigh  for  the  light  departed, 

Never  to  shine  again. 

Tis  the  voice  of  Rachel  weeping, 
That  never  will  comfort  know  ; 

'Tis  the  wail  of  desolation, 

The  breaking  of  hearts  in  woe! 

in. 
Ah  !   the  blood  of  Abel  crieth 

For  vengeance  from  the  sod ! 
Tis  a  brother's  hand  that's  lifted 

In  the  face  of  an  angry  God ! 

Oh!   brother  of  the  Northland, 
We  plead  from  our  father's  grave  ; 

We  strike  for  our  homes  and  altars, 
He  fought  to  build  and  save  ! 

A  smoldering  fire  is  burning, 
The  Southern  heart  is  steeled — 

Perhaps  'twill  break  in  dying, 
But  never  will  it  yield. 


OLD  BETSY.  233 

OLD   BETSY. 

BY    JOHN    KILLUM. 

COME,  with  the  rifle  so  long  in  your  keeping, 
Clean  the  old  gun  up  and  hurry  it  forth ; 

Better  to  die  while  "  Old  Betsy  "  is  speaking 
Than  live  with  arms  folded  the  slave  of  the 

North. 

Hear  ye  the  yelp  of  the  North-wolf  resounding, 
Scenting  the  blood  of  the  warm-hearted  South  ; 

Quick !  or  his  villainous  feet  will  be  bounding 
Where  the  gore  of  our  maidens  may  drip  from 
his  mouth. 

Oft   in   the  wildwood    "Old  Bess"  has   relieved 

you, 
When  the  fierce   bear    was    cut    down    in    his 

track — 

If  at  that  moment  she  never  deceived  you, 
Trust  her  to-day  with  this  ravenous  pack. 

Then  come,  with  the  rifle  so  long  in  your  keep 
ing, 
Clean  the  old  girl  up  and  hurry  her  forth  ; 


234  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Better  to  die  while  "Old  Betsy"  is  speaking 
Than  live  with  arms  folded    the    slave  of   the 
North. 


NO   SURRENDER. 

EVER  constant,  ever  true, 

Let  the  word  be,  No  Surrender. 

Boldly  dare  and  greatly  do  ! 

They  shall  bring  us  safely  through, 
No  Surrender ;  No  Surrender. 

And  though  Fortune's  smiles  be  few, 

Hope  is  always  springing  new, 

Still  inspiring  me  and  you, 
With  a  magic  No  Surrender. 

Nail  the  colors  to  the  mast, 

Shouting  gladly,  No  Surrender ; 
Troubles  near  are  all  but  past, 
Serve  them  as  you  did  the  last. 
No  Surrender,  No  Surrender ; 
Though  the  skies  be  overcast, 
And  upon  the  sleety  blast 
Disappointment  gathers  fast, 

Beat  them  off  with  No  Surrender! 


ARM  FOR    THE   SOUTHERN  LAND. 

Constant  and  courageous  still, 

Mind,  the  word  is,  No  Surrender ; 

Battle,  though  it  be  up  hill, 

Stagger  not  at  seeming  ill, 
No  Surrender,  No  Surrender. 

Hope,  and  thus  your  hope  fulfill ; 

There's  a  way  where  there's  a  will, 

And  the  way  all  cares  to  kill 
Is  to  give  them  No  Surrender. 

N.  P.  W. 


ARM  FOR  THE  SOUTHERN  LAND. 

BY    GEN.    MIRABEAU    B.   LAMAR. 

ARM  for  the  Southern  Land, 

All  fear  of  death  disdaining ; 
Low  lay  the  tyrant  band, 

Our  sacred  rights  profaning  ! 
Each  hero  draws  in  Freedom's  cause, 

And  meets  the  foe  with  bravery; 
The  servile  race,  and  Tory  base, 

May  safety  seek  in  slavery. 
Chains  for  the  dastard  knave — 

Recreant  limbs  should  wear  them  ; 


236  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

But  blessings  on  the  brave 
Whose  valor  will  not  bear  them  ! 

Stand  by  your  injured  State, 

And  let  no  feuds  divide  you  ; 
On  tyrants  pour  your  hate, 

And  common  vengeance  guide  you. 
Our  foes  should  feel  proud  freemen's   steel, 

For  freemen's  rights  contending  ; 
Where'er  they  die,  there  let  them  lie, 

To  dust  in  scorn  descending. 
Thus  may  each  traitor  fall 

Who  dare  as  foe  invade  us  ; 
Eternal  fame  to  all 

Who  shall  in  battle  aid  us! 

Proud  land  !  shall  she  invoke 

Another's  hand  to  right  her  ? 
No !  her  own  avenging  stroke 

Shall  backward  roll  the  smiter. 
Ye  tyrant  band,  with  ropes  of  sand 

Go  bind  the  rushing  river ; 
More  weak  and  vain  your  cursed  chain, 

While  God  is  freedom's  giver. 
Then  welcome  to  the  day 

We  meet  the  proud  oppressor, 


THINKING   OF   THE   SOLDIERS. 

For  God  will  be  our  stay, 
Our  right  hand  and  redresser. 


THINKING   OF   THE   SOLDIERS. 

WE  were  sitting  around  the  table, 

Just  a  night  or  two  ago, 
In  the  little  cozy  parlor, 

With  the  lamp-light  burning  low, 
And  the  window-blinds  half  opened, 

For  the  summer  air  to  come, 
And  the  painted  curtains  moving 

Like  a  busy  pendulum. 

Oh  !  the  cushions  on  the  sofa, 

And  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 
And  the  gathering  of  comforts, 

In  the  old  familiar  hall ; 
And  the  wagging  of  the  pointer, 

Lounging  idly  by  the  door, 
And  the  flitting  of  the  shadows 

From  the  ceiling  to  the  floor. 

Oh !  they  wakened  in  my  spirit, 
Like  the  beautiful  in  art, 


238  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Such  a  busy,  busy  thinking — 
Such  a  dreaminess  of  heart, 

That  I  sat  among  the  shadows, 
With  my  spirit  all  astray  ; 

Thinking  only — thinking  only 
Of  the  soldiers  far  away  ; 


Of  the  tents  beneath  the  moonlight, 

Of  the  stirring  tattoo's  sound, 
Of  the  soldier  in  his  blanket, 

In  his  blanket  on  the  ground  ; 
Of  the  icy  winter  coming, 

Of  the  cold  bleak  winds  that  blow, 
And  the  soldier  in  his  blanket, 

In  his  blanket  on  the  snow. 

Of  the  blight  upon  the  heather, 

And  the  frost  upon  the  hill, 
And  the  whistling,  whistling  ever, 

And  the  never,  never  still ; 
Of  the  little  leaflets  falling, 

With  the  sweetest,  saddest  sound — 
And  the  soldier — oh  !  the  soldier, 

In  his  blanket  on  the  ground. 


THE  DYING   SOLDIER.  239 

Thus  I  lingered  in  my  dreaming, 

In  my  dreaming  far  away, 
Till  the  spirit's  picture-painting 

Seemed  as  vivid  as  the  day; 
And  the  moonlight  faded  softly 

From  the  window  opened  wide, 
And  the  faithful,  faithful  pointer 

Nestled  closer  by  my  side. 

And  I  knew  that  'neath  the  starlight, 

Though  the  chilly  frosts  may  fall, 
That  the  soldier  will  be  dreaming, 

Dreaming  often  of  us  all. 
So  I  gave  my  spirit's  painting 

Just  the  breathing  of  a  sound, 
For  the  dreaming,  dreaming  soldier, 

In  his  slumber  on  the  ground. 
November  24,  1861. 


THE    DYING    SOLDIER. 

BY    JAMES    A.  MECKLIN. 

GATHER  round  him  where  he's  lying, 
Hush  your  footsteps,   whisper  low, 


240  SONGS  OF  THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

For  a  soldier  here  is   dying, 
In  the  sunset's  radiant  glow. 

Beating,  beating,   slowly  beating, 

Runs  the  life-blood  through  his  frame  ; 

Swift  the  soldier's  breath  is  fleeting, 
And  he  calls  his  mother's  name  : 

"  Mother,  mother,   come  and   kiss  me, 

Ere  my  spirit  fades  away, 
For  I  know  you  oft  will  miss  me, 

When  you  watch  the  sinking  day. 

"  Brother,  sister,  nearer,   nearer ! 

Place,  oh,  place  your  hands   in  mine, 
You  whose  love  than  life  was  dearer, 

Let  your  arms  around  me  twine. 

"  Father,   see  the  sun  is  fading 
From  the  hill-tops  of  the  west, 

And  the  valley  night  is  shading — 
Farewell,  loved  ones,  I'm  at  rest." 

Dying,  dying !  yes,  he's   dying  ! 

Close  the  eyelids,  let  him  rest; 
No  more  sorrow,  no  more  sighing, 

E'er  again  shall  heave  his  breast. 


PEN SA  CO  LA  :    TO  MY  SON.  241 

Sleeping,  sleeping,  calmly  sleeping, 
In  the  church-yard  cold  and  drear, 

And  the  wintry  winds  are  heaping 
O'er  him  leaflets  brown  and  sear. 

And  he's  resting,  where  forever 
Clang  of  trumpet,  roll  of  drum, 

Roar  of  cannon,  never,  never, 
Never  more  to  him  shall  come. 


PENSACOLA:    TO   MY   SON. 

BY    M.  S. 

BEAUTIFUL  the  land  may  be, 

Its  groves  of  palm,  its  laurel -trees, 

And  o'er  the  smiling,  murm'ring  sea, 
Soft  may  blow  the  Southern  breeze — 

And  land,  and  sea,  and  balmy  air, 

May  make  a  home  of  beauty  there. 

And  bright  beneath  Floridian  sky, 

The  world  to  thy  young  fancy  seems  ; 

I  see  the  light  that  fills  thine  eye, 
I  know  what  spirit  rules  thy  dreams  ; 
16 


242  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

But  flower-gemmed  shore  and  rippling  sea 
Are  darker  than  the  grave  to  me  ; 

For  storms  are  lowering  in  that  sky, 

And  sad  may   be   that  fair  land's  doom ; 

Full  soon,  perhaps,  the  battle-cry 

May  wake  the  cannon's  fearful  boom, 

And  shot  and  shell  from  o'er  the  waves 

May  plow  the  rose's  bed  for  graves. 

And  we,  whose  dear  ones  cluster  there, 
We,  mothers,  who  have   let  them  go — 

Our  all,  perhaps — how  shall  we  bear 
That  which  another  week  may  show  ? 

The  love  which  made  our  lives,  all  gone, 

Our  hearts  left  desolate  and  lone  ! 

Country  !  what  to  me  that  name, 
Should  I  in  vain  demand  my  son  ? 

Glory !  what  a  nation's  fame  ? 

Home  !  home,  without  thee,  I  have  none 

Ah  !  stay — this  Southern  land  not  mine  ? 

The  land  that  e'en  in  death  is  thine  ! 

A  country's  laurel-wreath  for  thee, 
A  hero's  grave — my  own  !  my  own ! 


THE    VOLUNTEERS    TO    THE   "  MELISHr  243 

And  neither  land  nor  home  for  me, 
Because  a  mother's  hope  is  gone  ? 
Traitor  I  am  !     God's  laws  command 
That,  NEXT  TO  HEAVEN,  OUR  NATIVE  LAND  ! 

And  I  will  not  retract — ah  !  no — 
What,  in  my  pride  of  home,  I  said, 

That,   "  /  would  give  my  son  to  go 
Where'er  our  HERO  RULER  led! " 

The  mother's  heart  may  burst — but  still, 

Make  it,  O  God,  to  know  Thy  will. 
NEW  ORLEANS,  LA. 


THE  VOLUNTEERS  TO  THE  "MELISH." 

BY    WM.    C.    ESTRES. 

COME  forth,  ye  gallant  heroes, 

Rub  up  each   rusty  gun, 
And  face  these  hireling  Yankees, 

Who  live  by  tap  of  drum. 
We  Volunteers  are  wearied, 

By  a  twelve  months'  "  sojourn  "  ; 
We  want  to  rest  a  little, 

And  then  we'll  fight  "again." 


244  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

We've  won  some  five  pitched  battles, 

But  will  yield  you  our  "  posish  "  ; 
And  if  you  want  some  glory, 

Why  pitch   in  now,  "  Melish." 
Don't  refuse  to  leave  your  spouses  ; 

Our  own  are  just  as  dear, 
And  each  lonely  little  woman 

Longs  for  her  Volunteer. 

Don't  mind  your  sobbing  sweethearts ; 

For  though  'tis  hard  to  part, 
We'll  volunteer  to  cheer  'em, 

And  console  each  troubled  heart. 
For  the  sake  of  old  Virginia, 

Come  and  fight !  that's  if  you  can, 
And  let  your  prattling  babies 

Know  their  daddy  was  a  man. 

For  you  we've  fought  and  struggled  ; 

Had  u  no  furloughs  " — nary  one — 
We  want  a  little  resting, 

And  so  we're  coming  home. 
Then  forward,  bold  Militia ! 

"If  you're  coming,  come  along," 
Or,  by  the  gods  !  we'll  force  you  out 

To  your  duty — right  or  wrong. 


THE    TURTLE.  245 

THE  TURTLE. 

CAESAR,  afloat  with  his  fortunes  ! 

And  all  the  world  agog, 
Straining  its  eyes 
At  a  thing  that  lies 

In  the  water,  like  a  log ! 
It's  a  weasel !  a  whale  ! 
I  see  its  tail ! 

It's  a  porpoise  !  a  polywog ! 

Tarnation  !  it's  a  turtle ! 

And  blast  my  bones  and  skin, 
My  hearties,  sink  her, 
Or  else  you'll  think  her 

A  regular  terror — pin  ! 

The  frigate  poured  a  broadside  ! 

The  bombs  they  whistled  well, 
But— hit  old  Nick 
With  a  sugar  stick  ! 

It  didn't  phase  her  shell  ! 

Piff,  from  the  creature's  larboard — 
And  dipping  along  the  water 


246  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

A  bullet  hissed 
From  a  wreath  of  mist 
Into  a  Doodle's  quarter ! 

Raff,  from  the  creature's  starboard — 
Rip,  from  his  ugly  snorter, 

And  the  Congress  and 

The  Cumberland 

Sunk,  and  nothing — shorter. 

Now,  here's  to  you,  Virginia, 
And  you  are  bound  to  win ! 

By  your  rate  of  bobbing  round 
And  your  way  of  pitchin'  in — 

For  you  are  a  cross 

Of  the  old  sea-horse 

And  a  regular  terror — pin. 


JACKSON. 

BY    HENRY    L.    FLASH. 

NOT  'midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 

Not  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 
Pid  kingly  Death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  Great  Leader  low. 


JACKSON.  247 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke. 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town  ; 
When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause,  went  down. 

Though    his    alone    the    blood    that    flecks    the 

ground, 

Recording  all  his  grand,  heroic  deeds, 
Freedom  herself  is  writhing  with  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  Nation's  Promised  Land 

At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth  ; 
But    broke    the    House    of    Bondage    with    his 
hand — 

The  Moses  of  the  South  ! 

O  gracious  God  !  not  gainless  is  the  loss  : 

A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  thy  sternest  frown; 
And  while  his  country  staggers  with  the  cross, 
He  rises  with  the  crown! 


248  SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
SONG   OF   THE   PRIVATEER. 

BY    ALEX.    H.    CUMMINS. 

FEARLESSLY  the  seas  we  roam, 

Tossed  by  each  briny  wave ; 
Its  boundless  surface  is  our  home, 

Its  bosom  deep  our  grave. 
No  foreign  mandate  fills  with  awe 

Our  gallant-hearted  band  ; 
We  know  no  home,  we  know  no  law, 

But  that  of  Dixie's  land. 

The  bright  star  is  our  compass  true, 

Our  chart  the  ocean  wide ; 
Our  only  hope  the  noble  few 

That's  standing  side   by  side. 
We  do  not  fear  the  stormy  gale 

That  sweeps  old  ocean's  strand ; 
We  scorn  our  enemy's  clumsy  sail, 

And  all  for  Dixie's  land. 

We  love  to   hoist  to  the  topmost  peak 
Our  Southern  Stars  and  Stripes ; 

And  woe  to  him  who  dares  to   seek 
To  trample  on  their  rights  ! 


NO    UNION  MEN.  249 

It  is  the  aegis  of  the  free, 

And  by  it  we  will  stand, 
And  watch  it  waving  o'er  the  sea, 

And  over  Dixie's  land. 


We  love  to  roam  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

And  hear  the  cannon's  boom, 
And  give  the  war-cry  wild  and  free 

Amid  the  battle's  gloom. 
We  do  not  fight  alone  for  gain, 

So  far  from  native  strand  ; 
But  our  country's  freedom  and  its  fame, 

And  the  fair  of  Dixie's   land. 


NO   UNION   MEN. 

BY   MILLIE    MAYFIELD. 

"  On  the  2 1st,  five  of  the  enemy's  steamers  approached 
Washington,  N.  C.,  and  landed  a  hundred  Yankees,  who 
marched  through  the  town,  playing  *  Yankee  Doodle,'  hoisted 
their  flag  on  the  court-house,  and  destroyed  gun-carriages 
and  an  unfinished  gun-boat  in  the  ship-yard.  The  people 
preserved  a  sullen  and  unresisting  silence.  The  Yankees 


250  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

then  left,  saying  they  were  disappointed  in  not  finding  Union 
men." — Telegram  front  Charleston ,  March  29,  1862. 

"  UNION  MEN  !  "    O  thrice-fooled  fools  ! 

As  well  might  ye  hope  to  bind 
The  desert  sands  with  a  silken  thread, 

When  tossed  by  the  whistling  wind, 
Or  to  blend  the  shattered  waves  that  lash 

The  feet  of  the  cleaving  rock, 
When     the     tempest    walks     the     face     of     the 
deep, 

And  the  water-spirits  mock, 
As  the  severed  chain  to  reunite 

In  a  peaceful  link  again  ; 
On  our  burning  homesteads  ye  may  write, 

"We  found  no  Union  men." 

Aye,  hoist  your  old  dishonored  flag, 

And  pipe  your  worn-out  tune  ; 
The  hills  of  the  South  have  caught  the  strain, 

And  will  answer  it  full  soon  ; 
Not  with  the  sycophantic  tone, 

And  the  cringing  knee  bent  low — 
The  deep-mouthed  cannon  shall  bear  the  tale, 

Where  the  sword  deals  blow  for  blow ; 


NO    UNION  MEN.  2$  I 

Our  braying  trumpets  in  your  ears, 

Shall  defiant  shout  again, 
"  Back,  wolves  and  foxes,  to  your  lairs, 

Here  are  no   Union  men  !  " 

Union,  with  tastes  dissimilar? 

Such  Union  is  the  worst 
And  direst  form  of  bondage  that 

Nations  or  men  have  cursed  ! 
Union  with  traitors ?     Hear  ye  not 

That  cry  for  vengeance,  deep, 
Where  hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot, 

Our  glittering  columns  sweep? 
Our  iron-tongued  artillery 

Shouts  through  the  bristling  glen, 
To  the  war-drum  echoing  reveille, 

"  Here  are  no  Union  men  !  " 

Oh,  deep  have  sunken  the  burning  seeds 

That  the  winged  winds  have  borne, 
That  for  all  your  future  years  must  yield 

The  thistle  and  prison-thorn  ; 
Our  soil  was  genial — ye  might  have  sown 

A  harvest  rich.     'Tis  too  late  ! 
To  our  children's  children   we  leave   for  you 

But  a  heritage  of  Hate  ! 


252  SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Ye  have  opened  the  wild  flood-gates  of  war, 
And  we  may  not  the  torrent  pen  ; 

But  ye  seek  in  vain  on  our  storm-beat  shore 
For  the  myth  called   "  Union  Men." 


HARP   OF  THE   SOUTH. 

A    SONNET.       BY    "  CORA." 

HARP   of  the  South,   awake  !     A  loftier  strain 
Than  ever  yet  thy  tuneful  strings  has  stirred, 
Awaits  thee  now.     The  Eastern  world  has  heard 
The  thunder  of  the  battle  'cross  the  main — 
Has  seen  the  young  South  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 
And  rise  to  being  at  a  single  word — 
The  watchword,  Liberty — so  long  transferred 
To    the    oppressor's    mouth.      Moons    wax    and 

wane, 

And  still  the  nations  stand  with  listening  ear, 
And  still  o'er  ocean  floats  the  battle-cry. 
Harp  of  the  South,  awake,  and  bid  them  hear 
The  name  of  Jackson ;  loud,  and  clear,  and  high, 
Strike  notes  exultant,  o'er  the  hero's  bier, 
Who,  though  he  sleeps  in  dust,  can  never  die. 


SPIRITS  OF   THE  FATHERS.  253 

WHAT  THE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  FATHERS 
OF  THE  FIRST  REVOLUTION  SAY 
TO  THEIR  SONS  NOW  ENGAGED  IN 
THE  SECOND. 

BY    HENRY  LOMAS. 

WE  are  watching  that  land  where  Liberty  woke — 
Like  beams  of  the  morning  through   darkness  it 

broke — 
Then   up   from   the    mountain    the    bold    eagle 

sprung, 

And  wide  to  the  breeze  his  broad  pinions  flung. 
Rise !    rise !   ye  sons   of   the  South  and    be 
free  ! 

The  mighty  have  fallen,  yet  death  can  not  chill, 
Those  noble  emotions  the  soul  ever  thrill  ; 
The  grave  hath  no  confines  the  spirit  to  hold, 
While  back  to  its  kindred  it  flies  to  unfold 

Truth  !  Truth !  safeguard  of  the  South  and 
the  free. 

Shall  Washington  rest,  while  a  wail  of  discord 
Reminds  him  the  North  is  forgetting  the  Lord? 


254  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN-  PEOPLE. 

Will  hero   and    statesman — the    country's   bright 

light- 
Look  down  without  pity  from  yonder  far  height, 
On  this  Land  of  Hope,    for  the   brave   and 
the  free  ? 

That  same  noble  spirit  now  watches  above, 
With  thousands  of  others,  to    guide  and    guard 

you  with  love ; 

For  here,  true,  earnest,  and  brave  men  are  found, 
With  hearts    uncorrupted,  to  their    native    land 

bound. 

Awake  !    awake !    O    ye  sons  of  the  South, 
and  be  free  ! 

Down  with  the  hireling  that  seeks  now  to  rend 
The  homes  which  your  ancestors  fought  to  de 
fend  ; 

Rekindle  the  beacon  ere  the  last  spark  is  fled, 
And  light  up  the  camp-fires  round  Liberty's  bed  ! 
Ye  sons  of   the    sunny  South,    strike  to  be 
free! 

Fear  not  the  Northern  despot,  or  his  feeble  frown, 
Who  seeks,  through    his   minions,  the    South    to 
put  down ; 


SPIRITS  OF    THE  FATHERS.  2$$ 

Look    to    your    God,    from    whence     comes    all 

power, 

And  seek  His  aid  and  protection  in  each  dark 
ened  hour. 

Strike  again    and    again,  O  ye    sons    of  the 
free! 

Carolina's  sons  to  this  platform  have  come — 
Protection  to  Liberty,  to  fireside,  and  home — 
Their  watch-word  to-day,  as  their  Fathers'  of  old, 
Truth,    Justice,   and   Freedom,   before   Northern 

gold. 

Ye  are  the    sons  of   the    Fathers    who  bled 
to  be  free  ! 

Then  loud  ring  the  anvil,  the  hammer,  and  bell  ; 
The  South  her  new  anthem,  say  what  does  it  tell  ? 
Cotton,  Grain,  and  Sugar,  have  proved  threefold 

cord — 

Columbia,  the  envied,  the  blest  of  the  Lord  ! 
Sun  of  the  sunny   land,  shine  still  o'er   the 
free! 

On  heaven's  fair  arches,  see  graven  the  names 
Of  patriot  and  soldier,  who   drained   life's   pure 
veins  ; 


256  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Then  down  with  the  Northern    despot,  let    him 

hide  his  head, 
Who  by   heartless   oppression   would    sever   one 

thread 

Of   this  Southern  Confederacy,  the    hope  of 
the  free  ! 

Once    again    at    the   altar,  brothers,    gather   and 

kneel ; 
Our  pledge,  the  South — one    family,  in    woe    or 

in  weal ; 

One  God  and  one  Country — in  peace  or  in  war ; 
The  South,  Free,  United,  and  Truth  the  pole-star 
Of   this    sunny  land,   which  for  ye  must  be 
free! 


HEART-VICTORIES. 
BY  A  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

THERE'S  not  a  stately  hall, 

There's  not  a  cottage  fair, 
That  proudly  stands  on  Southern  soil, 

Or  softly  nestles  there, 


HEART-VICTORIES.  257 

But  in  its  peaceful  walls, 

With  wealth  or  comfort  blest, 
A  stormy  battle  fierce  hath  raged 

In  gentle  woman's  breast. 

There  Love,  the  true,  the  brave, 

The  beautiful,  the  strong, 
Wrestles  with  Duty,  gaunt  and  stern, 

Wrestles  and  struggles  long  ; 
He  falls — no  more  again 

His  giant  foe  to  meet  ; 
Bleeding  at  every  opening  vein, 

Love  falls  at  Duty's  feet. 

Oh!  daughter  of  the  South! 

No  victor's  crown  be  thine  ; 
Not  thine,  upon  the  tented  field, 

In  martial  pomp  to  shine  ; 
But,  with  unfaltering  trust 

In  Him  who  rules  on  high, 
To  deck  thy  loved  ones  for  the  fray, 

And  send  them  forth  to  die. 

With  wildly  throbbing  heart — 

With  faint  and  trembling  breath — 
The  maiden  speeds  her  lover  on, 

To  victory  or  death ; 
17 


258  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Forth  from  caressing  arms, 

The  mother  sends  her  son, 
And  bids  him  nobly  battle  on, 

Till  the  last  field  is  won. 

While  she,  the  tried,  the  true, 

The  loving  wife  of  years, 
Chokes  down  the  rising  agony, 

Drives  back  the  starting  tears  : 
"  I  yield  thee  up,"  she  cries, 

"  In  the  country's  cause  to  fight ; 
Strike  for  our  own,  our  children's  home, 

And  God  defend  the  right." 

Oh  !  daughter  of  the  South, 

When  our  fair  land  is  free, 
When  peace  her  lovely  mantle  throws 

Softly  o'er  land  and  sea, 
History  shall  tell,  how  thou 

Hast  nobly  borne  thy  part, 
And  won  the  proudest  triumphs  yet — 

The  victories  of  the  heart. 


SEVENTY-SIX  AND   SIXTY-ONE.       2 59 
SEVENTY-SIX   AND   SIXTY-ONE. 

BY    JOHN    W.    OVERALL. 

YE  spirits  of  the  glorious  dead ! 

Ye  watchers  in  the  sky  ! 
Who  sought  the  patriot's  crimson  bed, 

With  holy  trust  and  high — 
Come,  lend  your  inspiration  now, 

Come,  fire  each  Southern  son, 
Who  nobly  fights  for  freemen's  rights, 

And  shouts  for  sixty-one. 

Come,  teach  them  how  on  hill,  on  glade, 

Quick  leaping  from  your  side, 
The  lightning  flash  of  sabers  made 

A  red  and  flowing  tide  ; 
How  well  ye  fought,  how  bravely  fell, 

Beneath  our  burning  sun, 
And  let  the  lyre,  in  strains  of  fire, 

So  speak  of  sixty-one. 

There's  many  a  grave  in  all  the  land, 

And  many  a  crucifix, 
Which  tells  how  that  heroic  band 

Stood  firm  in  seventy-six — 


26O  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Ye  heroes  of  the  deathless  past, 

Your  glorious  race  is  run, 
But  from  your  dust  springs  freemen's  trust, 

And  blows  for  sixty-one. 

We  build  our  altars  where  you  lie, 

On  many  a  verdant  sod, 
With  sabers  pointing  to  the  sky, 

And  sanctified  of  God  ; 
The  smoke  shall  rise  from  every  pile, 

Till  Freedom's  cause  is  won, 
And  every  mouth  throughout  the  South 

Shall  shout  for  sixty-one ! 


KENTUCKY. 

BY   ESTELLE. 

"Just  send  for  us  Kentucky  boys, 

And  we'll  protect  you,  ladies." — Old  Song. 

THEN,  leave  us  not,  Kentucky  boys, 
Though  thick  upon  thy  border, 

The  vulture  flaps  his  restless  wing, 
And  scowls  the  dark  marauder. 


KENTUCKY.  26 1 

Kentucky  blood  is  just  as  proud, 

Kentucky  powder  ready, 
Kentucky  hearts  are  just  as  brave, 

Kentucky  nerve  as  steady, 

As  when  the  flag  we  once  revered, 

Unfolded  o'er  her  proudly, 
And  for  the  South,  Kentucky's  voice, 

Undaunted,  echoed  loudly. 

The  lion-hearted  hero  then, 

Who  led  that  gallant  number, 
Must  surely  feel  a  sad  unrest 

Disturb  his  death-cold  slumber. 

And  one  whose  sire,  on  history's  page, 

Is  blent  in  proudest  story, 
Fell  on  a  Southern  field,  and  bathed 

His  dying  brow  in  glory. 

Fell,  overcome  by  savage  foes, 

Yet  still  their  rage  defying; 
"  These,  give  my  father,"  cried  the  son, 

"And  tell  him  how  I'm  dying." 


262  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

But  now  that  flag  is  vilely  stained, 

Its  sacred  rights  invaded — 
Wrong  and  dishonor  wield  the  staff; 

Its  glory's  sadly  shaded. 

And  when  we  would  its  dying  spark 
Snatch  from  the  blackening  ashes, 

And  worship  once  again  its  light, 
As  through  the  world  it  flashes, 

Kentucky  leans  upon  her  arms, 

And  coldly  looks  about  her, 
Till  hirelings,  at  her  very  door, 

Dare  threaten,  and  to  flout  her. 

Desert  us  now,  Kentucky  boys, 

And  on  the  future  dawning, 
Thy  faded  glory  scarce  will  streak 

The  first  gray  light  of  morning. 

Heed  not  the  starveling  crew,  who  hang 

Upon  the  blue  Ohio, 
A  craven  heart  each  traitor  bears, 

And  dare  not  venture  nigher. 


KENTUCKY.  263 

And  should  they — know  ye  not  the  blood 
Within  our  full  hearts  beaming  ? — 

At  once  ten  thousand   scabbards  fly, 
Ten  thousand  blades  are  gleaming  ! 

Then,  waken  from  thy  nerveless  sleep, 
Gird  on  thy  well-tried  armor, 

And  soon  the  braggart  North  will  feel 
That  Right  has  strength  to  harm  her. 

Kentucky  boys  and  girls  have  we — 
From  us  ye  may  not  take  them  ; 

Sad-hearted  will  ye  give  them  up, 
And  for  the  foe  forsake  them  ? 

Oh,  Tennessee,  twin-sister,  grieves, 

To  take  thy  hand  at  parting, 
And  feel  that  from  its  farewell  grasp 

A  brother's  blood  is  starting. 

It  must  not  be  !    Kentucky,  come ! 

Virginia  loudly  calls  thee ; 
And  Maryland  defenseless  stands, 

To  share  what  fate  befalls  thee. 


264  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Come  ere  the  tyrant's  chain  is  forged, 
From  out  the  war-cloud  looming ; 

Come  ere  thy  palsied  knee  is  bent, 
To  hopeless  ruin  dooming. 


A    POEM   WHICH    NEEDS    NO    DEDICA 
TION. 

BY    JAMES   BARRON    HOPE. 

WHAT  !  you  hold  yourselves  as  freemen  ? 

Tyrants  love  just  such  as  ye  ! 
Go  !  abate  your  lofty  manner  ! 
Write  upon  the  State's  old  banner, 

"A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine  ! " 

Sink  before  the  Federal  altars, 

Each  one,  low  on  bended  knee  ; 
Pray,  with  lips  that  sob  and  falter, 
This  prayer  from  a  coward's  Psalter  : 
"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine  I  " 


A  POEM  WHICH  NEEDS  NO  DEDICA  TION.  26$ 

But  you  hold  that  quick  repentance 

In  the  Northern  mind  will  be ; 
This  repentance  comes  no  sooner 
Than  the  robber's  did  at  Luna.* 
"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O   Domine ! " 

He  repented  him  ;  the  Bishop 
Gave  him  absolution  free — 

Poured  upon  him  sacred  chrism 

In  the  pomp  of  his  baptism 
"A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine  !  " 


He  repented  ;  then,  he  sickened  — 
Was  he  pining  for  the  sea  ? 

In  extremis  he  was  shriven, 

The  Viaticum  was  given  ; 
"A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine !  " 

*  The  incident  with  which  I  have  illustrated  my  opinion 
of  the  policy  of  those  who  would  have  us  wait  for  a  "  reac 
tion  at  the  North,"  may  be  found  in  "  Milman's  Latin  Chris 
tianity,"  vol.  iii,  p.  133. 


266  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTPIERN  PEOPLE. 

Then  the  old  cathedral's  choir 

Took  the  plaintive  minor  key, 
With  the  Host  upraised  before  him, 
Down  the  marble  aisle  they  bore  him, 
"A   furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine  !  " 

And  the  Bishop,  and  the  Abbot, 

And  the  monks  of  high  degree, 
Chanting  praise  to  the  Madonna, 
Came   to  do  him  Christian  honor. 
"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O   Domine  !  " 

Now,   the  Miserere's  cadence 

Takes  the  voices  of  the  sea; — 
As  the  music-billows  quiver 
See  the  dead  freebooter  shiver ! 
"  A  furore   Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,   O  Domine  !  " 

Is  it  that  those  intonations 

Thrill  him  thus  from  head   to  knee  ? 
So  !   his  cerements  burst  asunder  ! 
'Tis  a  sight  of  fear  and  wonder  ! 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,   O  Domine  ! " 


A  POEM  WHICH  NEEJ)S  NO  DEDICA  TION.  267 

Fierce  he  stands  before  the  Bishop — 

Dark  as  shape  of  Destinie  ! 
Hark  !  a  shriek  ascends,  appalling  ! 
Down  the  prelate  goes,   dead — falling  ; 

"  A  furore   Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Dominie  !  " 

HASTING  lives  !     He  was  but  feigning  ! 

What  !   Repentant  ?     Never  he  ! 
Down  he  smites  the  priests  and  friars, 
And  the  city  lights  with  fires. 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine  !  " 

Ah  !  the  children  and  the  maidens, 

'Tis  in  vain  they  strive  to  flee  ! 
Where  the  white-haired  priests  lie  bleeding 
Is  no  place  for  tearful  pleading, 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine  ? " 

Louder  swells  the  frightful  tumult ; 

Pallid  Death  holds  reverie  ; 
Dies  the  organ's  mighty  clamor, 
By  the  Norseman's  iron  hammer. 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine  !  " 


268  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

And  they  thought  that  he  repented  ! 

Had  they  nailed  him  to  a  tree, 
He  had  not  deserved  their  pity, 
And— they  had  not  lost  their  city. 
"A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine !  " 

There's  a  moral  in  this  story, 

Which  is  plain  as  truth  can  be  : 
If  we  trust  the  North's  relenting, 
We  will  shriek,  too  late,  repenting, 
"A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine  !  " 


GOD    SAVE   THE    SOUTH. 

BY    REUBEN    NASON. 

GOD  bless  our  Southern  land ! 
Guard  our  beloved  land  ! 

God  save  the  South  ! 
Make  us  victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious ; 
Spread  Thy  shield  over  us  ; 

God  save  the  South  ! 


ON!    SOUTHRON,    ONI  269 

God  of  our  sires,  arise  ! 
Scatter  our  enemies, 

Who  mock  Thy  truth  ; 
Confound  their  politics, 
Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks  : 
In  Thee  our  faith  we  fix; 

God  save  the  South  ! 

In  the  fierce  battle-hour, 
With  Thine  almighty  power, 

Assist  our  youth  ; 
May  they,  with  victory  crowned, 
Joining  our  choral  round, 
With  heart  and  voice  resound, 

"  God  save  the  South  !  " 


ON!    SOUTHRON,   ON! 

BY    GEN.    M.    B.    LAMAR. 

ON  !  Southron,  on  ! 

Your  flag's  unfurled 

'Mid  clashing  steel,  and  death-shot  hurled, 
And  war's  dark  storm-cloud,  swiftly  whirled, 
Your  country  calls.     On  !  Southron,  on  ! 


270  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Strike  !  Southron,  strike  ! 
The  foeman's  trail 

Is  marked  with  blood  and  flame  alike  ; 
And  woman's  shriek,  and  infant's  wail, 
Show  that  he  wars  upon  the  frail 

A  war  of  hate.    Strike  !  Southron,  strike ! 

Can  manhood  fly, 
And,  recreant,  brave 

The  silent  scorn,  the  averted  eye — 
Decked  in  its  chains — a  cringing  slave  ? 
No !  rather  seek  a  soldier's  grave, 

And  show  the  tyrant  how  to  die. 

Then,   Southron,  on  ! 
By  all  that's  dear, 

By  feeble  age,  and  childhood's  dawn, 
By  mother's  love,  and  maiden's  prayer, 
The  brother's  blood,  the  sister's  tear — 

One  glance  to  Heaven,  then,  Southron,  on! 


CIVILE  BELLUM. 


CIVILE   BELLUM. 

"  In  this  fearful  struggle  between  North  and  South  there 
are  hundreds  of  cases  in  which  fathers  are  arrayed  against 
sons,  brothers  against  brothers." — American  paper. 

RIFLEMAN,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot, 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette  ; 
Ring  me  a  ball  on  the  glittering  spot, 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet  !  " 


"  Ah !  Captain,  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead  ; 
There's   music   around,   when   my   barrel's    in 

tune." 

Crack  !  went  the  rifle  ;  the  messenger  sped, 
And    dead    from    his    horse    fell    the    ringing 
dragoon. 

"  Now,  rifleman,  steal   through   the   bushes   and 

snatch 
From   your  victim    some    trinket    to    handsel 

first  blood  ; 

A   button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch, 
That    gleams    in    the    moon    like    a    diamond 
stud." 


2/2  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

"  O  Captain  !  I  staggered  and  sunk  in  my  track, 

When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  fallen  vidette, 

For    he    looked    so  like    you    as   he    lay  on   his 

back, 

That  my  heart  rose  upon  me  and  masters  me 
yet. 

"But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket— this  locket  of 

gold- 
An   inch   from   the   center   my  lead   broke  its 

way, 

Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 
Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

"  Ha  !  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket — 'tis  she  : 
My    brother's    young    bride — and    the    fallen 

dragoon 
Was  her  husband — hush  !  soldier,  't  was  heaven's 

decree ; 

We  must  bury  him  there  by  the  light   of  the 
moon  ! 

"  But  hark  !  the  far  bugles  their  warning  unite  ; 
War  is  a  virtue — weakness  a  sin  ; 


"FOLLOW,   BOYS!    FOLLOW!''  273 

There's  a    lurking    and    loping     around    us   to 
night  ; 
Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in !  " 

FROM  THE  ONCE  UNITED  STATES. 
London  Once  a  Week. 


"FOLLOW,    BOYS!    FOLLOW!" 

BY    MILLIE    MAYFIELD. 

FOLLOW,  brave  boys,  follow  ! 

Tis  the  roll-call  of  the  drum, 
And  the  bright  steel's  ringing  music, 

With  its  spirit-stirring  hum — 
'Tis  the  tramp  of  armed  columns, 

Brazen  fronted,  drawing  near, 
And  the  rattle  of  the  sabers 
In  the  scabbards,  that  ye  hear  ; 
Follow,  follow,  'tis  the  van,  boys, 

So  bravely  leading  on  ; 
Follow,  follow,  to  a  man,  boys, 
There's  glory  to  be  won  ! 

Follow,  follow,  saith  the  mother — 

Follow,  follow,  saith  the  wife — 
18 


2/4  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Though  ye're  dear  as  our  hearts'  blood, 

More  precious,  far  than  life  ; 
But  we  would  not  have  ye  linger 
While  the  hated  foeman  stands 
Beside  our  sacred  hearth-stones, 
And  desecrates  our  lands  ! 

We'll  forgive  the  starting  tear,  boys, 

'Tis  the  jewel  of  the  heart, 
That  ye  may  not  blush  to  wear,  boys, 
When  from  loved  ones  thus  ye  part. 

There's  not  a  Southern  matron 

But  in  her  bosom  wears 
The  iron  Key  of  Firmness 

That  locketh  up  her  fears  ; 
While  ye  buckle  on  your  armor, 

She  will  bid  ye  safe  "God-speed," 
And  bear  her  cross  all  bravely 
For  her  precious  country's  need  ! 

When  our  women  have  such  souls,  boys, 

Ye  must  never  flinch  or  quail — 
While  the  storm  of  battle  rolls,  boys, 
Ne'er  strike  the  straining  sail ! 

Our  lives  are  dearly  purchased, 
When  bondage  is  the  price  ; 


"FOLLOW,   BOYS!    FOLLOW!" 

And  what  is  home,  where  freedom 
Withers  'neath  the  tyrant's  vice  ? 
Better  the  earthy  pillow, 

Better  the  gory  bier, 
Where  the  true-hearted  ever 
Will  drop  the  burning  tear  ; 

For  think,   if  ye  should  fall,  boys, 

Ye  have  not  lived  in  vain — 
On  the  brave  soldier's  pall,  boys, 
None  ever  put  a  stain  ! 

Fling  out  our  glorious  banner 

Upon  the  golden  air — 
Swear  by  its  stars,  Dishonor 

Shall  leave  no  footprint  there  ! 
That  ye'll  plant  its  broad  bars  firmly, 

As  a  barrier  to  the  foe, 
From  the  blue  Gulf  to  the  Border, 
From  the  Sea  to  Mexico! 

The  Southern  sky's  a-flame,  boys, 

Where  our  stately  cities  burn, 
But,  as  monuments  of  fame,  boys, 
Their  ashes  we'll  in-urn ! 

Oh  !  inch  by  inch,   repel  him, 
The  foul  invading  foe  ! 


276  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Let  the  sharp  saber  tell  him 

How  despots  are  laid  low  ! 

And  history's   burning  pencil 

Will,  on  her  golden  page, 
Your  hero  name  enamel 
An  honor  to  the  age  ! 

One  blow,   and  we  are  free,  boys, 

Strike  firmly,  and  'tis  done ! 
On,  on,  to  Tennessee,  boys, 
Oh  !   follow  bravely  on  ! 


THE   SWORD   OF   ROBERT  LEE. 

BY    FATHER    A.    J.    RYAN. 

FORTH  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee  ! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 
High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon  light, 

Led  us  to  victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where,  full  long, 

It  slumbered  peacefully, 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song, 


THE   SWORD   OF  ROBERT  LEE. 

Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong, 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 
Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 


Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air, 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky  — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 
And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 

To  follow  —  and  to  die  ! 

Out  of  its  scabbard  !     Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  so  grand, 
Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee  ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  !     How  we  prayed 

That  sword  might  victor  be  ; 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 

Of  noble  Robert  Lee. 


278  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 
Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee  ; 

'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 

It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 

Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain, 
Proudly  and  peacefully. 


BOMBARDMENT   OF  VICKSBURG. 

BY    PAUL    H.    HAYNE. 

Dedicated  with  respect  and  admiration  to  Major-  General  Earl 
Van  Dorn. 

FOR  sixty  days  and  upwards 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  as  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not  ! 
"  If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 

Be  ramparts  of  the  dead  !  " 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards 
The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim, 


BOMBARDMENT  OF   VICKSBURG.       2/9 

And  even  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 
O'er  Christian's  prayer  and  hymn, 

Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 
As  if  the  fiends  of  air 

Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 
In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

'Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts; 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets, 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 

And  the  little  children  gamboled — 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed  ! 
Then  turning  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice  mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought, 

That  the  good  God  watched  above.* 

*  It  has  been  stated,  by  one  professing  to  have  witnessed 
the  fact,  that,  some  weeks  after  the  beginning  of  this  terrific 


280  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  above  us  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse, 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 
Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 

These  death-shafts  warned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle  tide  ; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode  with  the  step  of  hope 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 
COLUMBIA,  S.  C.,  August  6,  1862. 

bombardment,  not  only  were  ladies  seen  coolly  walking  the 
streets,  but  that  in  some  parts  of  the  town  children  were 
observed  at  play,  only  interrupting  their  sports  to  gaze  and 
listen  at  the  bursting  shells. 


"THE    YANKEE  DEVIL."  28 1 

"THE   YANKEE   DEVIL." 

BY    W.    P.    RIVERS. 

The  "  Nondescript,"  or  "  Yankee  Devil,"  for  clearing  the 
harbor,  was  washed  ashore  on  yesterday  at  Morris  Island, 
and  is  now  in  our  possession.  It  is  described  as  an  old  scow- 
like  vessel,  painted  red,  with  a  long  protruding  beak,  and 
jutting  iron  prongs  and  claws,  intended  for  the  removal  of 
torpedoes.  It  was  attached  to  the  Passaic,  and  managed  by 
her  during  the  engagement. — Charleston  Courier. 

The  enemy  are  waiting  for  a  new  machine  ("  Devil ") 
to  remove  the  torpedoes  in  the  harbor,  and  to  have  every 
thing  in  readiness  before  the  attack. — Same  paper. 

HURRAH  !  hurrah  !  good  news  and  true, 

Our  woes  will  soon  be  past  ; 
To  Charleston,  boys,  all  praise  be  due, 

The  devil's  caught  at  last. 

He's  caught,  he's  dead,  and  met  his  fate 

On  Morris  Island's  sands  ; 
His  carcass  lies  in  solemn  state, 

The  spoil  of  Rebel  hands. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  let  Dixie  cheer  ! 

What  may  not  Charleston  do  ! 
The  devil's  caught  at  last,  we  hear; 

A  Yankee  devil,  too  ! 


282  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

The  blackest,  bluest  from  below, 

The  prince  of  all  is  he, 
Who  leads  the  Yankees  where  they  go, 

On  land,  or  on  the  sea. 

The  news  is  true,  all  doubt  dispel, 
All  grief  and  fears  be  o'er  ! 

The  chiefest  from  perdition's  well 
Lies  on  a  Southern  shore. 

On  South  Carolina's  beach  he  lies — 

His  majesty  ashore  ! 
Ah  !  well  we  know  that  devil  dies 

Who   enters  at  that  door. 

His  name  and  hue,  and  shape  and  size, 

Identify  the  beast; 
'Tis  he— the  father  of  all  lies, 

Of  devils  not  the  least. 

Scow-like  across  the  deep  he  came, 

Blood-red  his  iron  sides ; 
With  beak,  and  claws,  and  fins  of  flame 

To  plow  the  vernal  tides. 


"THE    YANKEE  DEVIL?  283 

Like  serpents  which  Minerva  sent 

To  crush  the  Trojan  sire, 
So  Northern  devils  come  to  vent 

On  Charleston  blood  and  fire. 

But  Neptune  ne'er  decreed  the  fate 

Of  Laocoon's  dear  sons, 
To  gratify  the  Yankees'  hate 

On  Charleston's  dearer  ones. 

They'll  never  bear  one  fatal  hour 

The  Northern  serpent's  coil, 
Nor  feel  the  Yankee  devil's  power 

Who  come  to  crush  and  spoil. 

The  "  Nondescript,"  name  chosen  well ; 

The  "Northern  Devil,"  aye! 
A  fiend,  a  ghoul,  a  spirit  fell ! 

Who  may   describe  it — say? 

Foul,  artful,  bloody,  false,  insane, 
This  Northern  ghote  *  of  sin  ; 

The  heathen  hells  could  ne'er  contain 
A  darker  power  within. 

.*  Ghote— an  imaginary   evil  being  among    Eastern    na 
tions. 


284  SONGS  OF    THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

But  now,  hurrah,  the  devil's  dead ! 

High,  dry  upon  the  shore  ! 
Rebellion  still  may  rear  its  head, 

The  war  will  soon  be  o'er. 

Hold,  not  so  fast,  abate  your  cheer, 

The  battle  is  not  won  ; 
Another  devil  comes,  we  hear, 

Before  the  work  is  done. 

Alas  !  when  will  this  warfare  end  ? 

Not  till  all  Yankee  foes  are  dead  ; 
For  nondescript  is  each — or  fiend — 

His  soul  with  murder  red. 
CAVE  SPRINGS,  GA.,  April  n,  1863. 


THE  BOY-SOLDIER. 

BY    A    LADY    OF   SAVANNAH. 

HE  is  acting  o'er  the  battle, 
With  his  cap  and  feather  gay, 

Singing  out  his  soldier  prattle, 
In  a  mockish,  manly  way — 


THE  BOY-SOLDIER.  285 

With  the  boldest,  bravest  footstep, 

Treading  firmly  up  and  down, 
And  his  banner  waving  softly 

O'er  his  boyish  locks  of  brown. 

And  I  sit  beside  him  sewing, 

With  a  busy  heart  and  hand, 
For  the  gallant  soldiers  going 

To  the  far-off  battle-land  ; 
And  I  gaze  upon  my  jewel, 

In  his  baby-spirit  bold, 
My  little  blue-eyed  soldier, 

Just  a  second  summer  old. 

Still  a  deep,  deep  well  of  feeling, 
In  my  mother's  heart  is  stirred, 

And  the  tears  come  softly  stealing 
At  each  imitative  word. 

There's  a  struggle  in  my  bosom, 

For  I  love  my  darling  boy — 
He's  the  gladness  of  my  spirit, 

He's  the  sunlight  of  my  joy ! 
Yet  I  think  upon  my  country, 

And  my  spirit  groweth  bold, 
Oh  !  I  wish  my  blue-eyed  soldier 

Were  but  twenty  summers  old ! 


286  SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

I  would  speed  him  to  the  battle, 

I  would   arm  him  for  the  fight, 
I  would  give  him  to  his  country, 

For  his  country's  wrong  and  right ! 
I  would  nerve  his  hand  with  blessing, 

From  the  "God  of  Battles"  won; 
With  His  helmet  and  His  armor, 

I  would  cover  o'er  my  son. 

Oh !  I  know  there'd  be  a  struggle, 

For  I  love  my  darling  boy  ; 
He's  the  gladness   of  my  spirit, 

He's  the  sunlight  of  my  joy  ! 
Yet  in  thinking  of  my  country, 

Oh  !  my  spirit  groweth  bold  ; 
And  I  wish  my  blue-eyed   soldier 

Were  but  twenty  summers  old. 


THE   VIRGINIANS   OF   THE    VALLEY. 

BY    FRANK    TICKNOR,    M.    D. 
Sic  Jurat. 

THE  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race, 
Who,  since  the  days  of  old, 


THE    VIRGINIANS  OF   THE    VALLEY.   28/ 

Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold  ; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

Who  rarely  hated  ease, 
Who  rode  with  Smith  around  the  land 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas! 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginia  hills, 

Amid  embattled  foes, 
And  planted   there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose  ; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  many  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth  ! 

We  thought  they  slept !  the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires  ! 
But  still  the  Golden  Horseshoe  knights, 

Their  Old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep. 

TORCH  HALL,  GA. 


288  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
C.  S.  A. 

BY    FATHER    ABRAM    J.    RYAN. 

Do  we  weep  for  the  heroes  who  died  for  us, 
Who,  living,  were  true  and  tried  for  us, 
And,  dying,  sleep  side  by  side  for  us  ; 

The  martyr  band 

That  hallowed  our  land 
With  the  blood  they  shed  in  a  tide  for  us? 

Ah  !    fearless  on  many  a  day  for  us, 
They  stood  in  the  front  of  the  fray  for  us, 
And  held  the  foeman  at  bay  for  us  ; 

And  tears  should  fall 

Fore'er  o'er  all 
Who  fell  while  wearing  the  gray  for  us. 

How  many  a  glorious  name  for  us, 

How  many  a  story  of  fame  for  us 

They  left  :     Would  it  not  be  a  blame  for  us 

If  their  memories  part 

From  our  land  and  heart, 
And  a  wrong  to  them,  and  a  shame  for  us  ? 

No,  no,  no  !    they  were  brave  for  us, 

And  bright  were  the  lives  they  gave  for  us  ; 


C.   S.  A.  289 

The  land  they  struggled  to  save  for  us 

Will  not  forget 

Its  warriors  yet 
Who  sleep  in  so  many  a  grave  for  us. 

On  many  and  many  a  plain  for  us 

Their  blood  poured  down  all  in  vain  for  us, 

Red,  rich,  and  pure,  like  a  rain  for  us  ; 

They  bleed — we  weep, 

We  live — they  sleep, 
"All  lost,"  the  only  refrain  for  us. 

But  their  memories  e'er  shall  remain  for  us, 
And   their   names,   bright    names,   without    stain 

for  us  ; 
The  glory  they  won  shall  not  wane  for  us, 

In  legend  and  lay 

Our  heroes  in  gray 
Shall  forever  live  over  again  for  us. 


SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE   SWEET   SOUTH. 

BY    WILLIAM    GILMORE     SIMMS. 

0  THE  sweet  South  !  the  sunny,  sunny  South  ! 
Land  of  true  feeling,  land  forever  mine  ! 

1  drink  the  kisses  of  her  rosy  mouth, 

And  my  heart  swells  as  with  a  draught  of  wine  ; 
She  brings  me  blessings  of  maternal  love; 

I  have  her  smile  which  hallows  all  my  toil; 
Her  voice  persuades,  her  generous  smiles  approve, 
She  sings  me  from  the  sky  and  from  the  soil ! 
O,  by  her  lonely  pines  that  wave  and  sigh  ! 

O,  by  her  myriad  flowers,  that  bloom  and  fade, 
By  all  the  thousand  beauties  of  her  sky, 
And  the  sweet  solace  of  her  forest  shade, 
She's  mine — she's  ever  mine — 
Nor  will  I  aught  resign 
Of  what  she  gives  me,  mortal  or  divine  ; 
Will  sooner  part 
With  life,  hope,  heart — 
Will  die— before  I  fly! 

O,  love  is  hers — such  love  as  ever  glows 
In  souls  where  leap  affection's  living  tide; 


THE   SWEET  SOUTH.  2QI 

She  is  all  fondness  to  her   friends  ;  to  foes 
She   glows  a   thing   of  passion,    strength,    and 

pride  ; 
She  feels  no  tremors  when  the  danger's  nigh, 

But  the  fight  over  and  the  victory  won, 
How,  with  strange  fondness,  turns  her  loving  eye 

In  tearful  welcome  on  each  gallant  son! 
O !  by  her  virtues  of  the  cherished  past — 

By  all  her  hopes  of  what  the  future  brings — 
I  glory  that  my  lot  with  her  is  cast, 
And  my  soul  flushes  and  exulting  sings ; 
She's  mine — she's  ever  mine — 
For  her  will  I  resign 

All  precious  things— all  placed  upon  her  shrine ; 
Will  freely  part 
With  life,  hope,  heart — 
Will  die— do  aught  but  fly  ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

THE    SOUTHERN   CROSS.* 

BY    MRS.    ELLEN    KEY    BLUNT. 

IN  the  name  of  God  !  Amen  ! 

Stand  for  our  Southern  rights! 
Arm,   ye  Southern  men, 

The  God  of  Battle  fights! 
Fling  the  invaders  far, 

Hurl  back  their  work  of  woe, 
The  voice  is  the  voice  of  a  brother, 

But  the  hands  are  the  hands  of  a  foe. 
They  come  with  a  trampling  army, 

Invading  our  native  sod — 
Stand,   Southrons  !  fight  and  conquer  ! 

In  the  name  of  the  Mighty  God ! 

They're   singing  our  song  of  triumph  f 
Which  was  made  to  make  us  free, 

While  they're  breaking  away  the   heartstrings 
Of  our  nation's  harmony. 

*  These  lines  were  dedicated  "to  His  Excellency  Presi 
dent  Davis,  from  his  fellow-citizens,  Ellen  Key  Blunt,  J.  T. 
Mayson  Blunt,  of  Maryland  and  Virginia." 

f  "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  written  by  Francis  Scott 
Key,  a  progenitor  of  Mrs.  Blunt. 


THE   SOUTHERN  CROSS.  293 

Sadly  it  floateth  from   us, 

Sighing  o'er  land  and  wave, 
Till  mute  on  the  lips  of  the  poet, 

It  sleeps  in  his   Southern  grave. 
Spirit  and  song  departed  ! 

Minstrel  and  minstrelsy  ! 
We  mourn  thee,  heavy-hearted, 

But  we  will,  we  shall   be  free ! 

They  are  waving  our  flag  above  us, 

With  a  despot's  tyrant  will ; 
With  our  blood  they  have  stained  its  colors, 

And  call  it  holy  still. 
With  tearful  eyes,  but  steady  hand, 

We'll  tear  its  stripes  apart, 
And  fling  them  like  broken  fetters, 

That  may  not  bind  the  heart ; 
But  we'll  save  our  stars  of  glory, 

In  the  might  of  the  sacred  sign 
Of  Him  who  has  fixed  forever 

Our  Southern  Cross  to  shine. 

Stand,   Southrons  !   stand  and  conquer ! 

Solemn  and  strong  and  sure  ! 
The  strife  shall  not  be  longer 

Than  God  shall   bid  endure. 


294  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

By  the  life  which  only  yesterday 

Came  with  the  infant's  breath, 
By  the   feet  which  ere  the  morn  may 

Tread  to  the  soldier's   death  ! 
By  the   blood  which  cries  to  Heaven  ! 

Crimson  upon  our  sod  ! 
Stand,   Southrons!  stand  and  conquer! 

In  the  name  of  the  Mighty  God  ! 
PARIS,  1862. 


PATRIOTISM. 

THE  holy  fire  that  nerved  the  Greek 

To  make  his  stand  at  Marathon, 
Until  the  last  red  foeman's  shriek 

Proclaimed  that  Freedom's   fight  was  won, 
Still  lives  unquenched — unquenchable  ! 

Through  every  age  its  fires  will  burn — 
Lives  in  the  hermit's  lonely  cell, 

And  springs  from  every  storied  urn  ! 

The  hearthstone  embers  hold  the  spark 
Where  fell  Oppression's  foot  hath  trod  ; 

Through  Superstition's  shadow  dark 
It  flashes  to  the  living  God  ! 


PA  TRIO  TISM.  295 

From  Moscow's  ashes  spring  the  Russ; 

In  Warsaw  Poland  lives  again  ; 
Schamyl,  on  frosty  Caucasus, 

Strikes  Liberty's  electric  chain ! 

Tell's  freedom-beacon  lights  the  Swiss; 

Vainly  the  invader  ever  strives; 
He  finds  "Sic  Semper  Tyrannis  " 

In  San  Jacinto's  bowie-knives  ! 
Than  these — than  all — a  holier  fire 

Now  burns  thy  soul,  Virginia's  son  ! 
Strike  then  for  wife,  babe,  gray -haired  sire ; 

Strike  for  the  grave  of  Washington  ! 

The  Northern  rabble  aims  for  greed  ; 

The  hireling  parson  goads  the  train — 
In  that  foul  crop  from  bigot  seed, 

Old  "  Praise  God  Barebones  "  howls  again  ! 
We  welcome  them  to  i(  Southern  lands  " — 

We  welcome   them  to  "  Southern  slaves " — 
We  welcome  them  "  with  bloody  hands 

To  hospitable  Southern  graves  !  " 


296  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

SONG  FOR   THE  MARYLAND  LINE. 

BY  j.  D.  M'CABE,  JR. 

BY  old  Potomac's  rushing  tide 

Our  bayonets  are  gleaming; 
And  o'er  the  bounding  waters  wide 

We  gaze  while  tears  are  streaming. 
The  distant  hills  of  Maryland 

Rise  sadly  up  before  us, 
And  tyrant  bands  have  chained  our  land — 

Our  mother,  proud,  that  bore  us. 

Our  proud  old  mother's  queenly  head 

Is  bowed  in  subjugation  ; 
With  her  children's  blood  her  soil  is  red, 

And  fiends  in  exultation 
Taunt  her  with  shame  as  they  bind  her   chains, 

While  her  heart  is  torn  with  anguish  ; 
Old  mother,  on  famed  Manassas's  plains 

Our  vengeance  did  not  languish ! 

We  thought  of  your  wrongs  as  on  we  rushed, 

'Mid  shot  and  shell  appalling; 
We  heard  your  voice  as  it  upward  gushed 

From  the  Maryland  life-blood  falling. 


SONG  FOR    THE  MARYLAND  LINE. 

No  pity  we  knew  !     Did  they  mercy  show 
When  they  bound  the  mother  that  bore  us  ? 

But  we  scattered  death  'mid  the  dastard  foe, 
Till  they,  shrieking,  fled  before  us! 

We  mourn  for  our  brothers  brave,  that  fell 

On  that  field,  so  stern  and  gory  ; 
But  their  spirits  rose  with  our  triumph-yell 

To  the  heavenly  realms  of  glory. 
And  their  bodies  rest  on  the  hard-won  field — 

By  their  love  so  true  and  tender ; 
We'll  keep  the  prize  they  would  not  yield, 

We'll  die,  but  we'll  not  surrender. 

And,  mother,  we  wait  but  the  signal-blast, 

To  rush  to  redeem  thy  glory  ; 
We  may  fall,  but  our  conquering  dust  shall  rest 

On  thy  soil,  so  famed  in  story. 
The  tyrant's  flag  shall  no  longer  shine, 

Thy  liberty  to  smother, 
When  the  word  is  passed  to  the  Maryland  Line, 

To  strike  for  their  loved  old  mother. 


298  SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
CONFEDERATE  LAND. 

BY    H.    H.  STRAWBRIDGE. 

STATES  of  the  South  !  Confederate  land ! 

Our  foe  has  come — the  hour  is  nigh  ; 
His  bale-fires  rise  on  every  hand — 

Rise  as  one  man,  to  do  or  die ! 
From  mountain,  vale,  and  prairie  wide, 
From  forest  vast,  and  field,  and  glen, 
And  crowded  city,  pour  thy  tide, 
Oh  !  fervid  South !  of  patriot  men. 

Up !  old  and  young ;  the  weak,  be  strong  ! 
Rise  for  the  right — hurl  back  the  wrong, 
And  foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand, 
Strike  for  our  own  Confederate  land  ! 

Make  every  house,  and  rock,  and  tree, 

And  hill,  your  forts  ;  and  fen  and  flood 
Yield  not !  our  soil  shall  rather  be 

One  waste  of  flame,  one  sea  of  blood  ! 
Fear  not  their  steel,  but  fear  their  gold — 

Not  Yankee  force,  but  Yankee  fraud  ; 
Trust  not  the  race — as  false  as  cold — 

Whose  very  prayers  are  lies  to  God. 
Up  !  old  and  young,  etc. 


THE  BANNER   SONG.  299 

Armed,  or  unarmed,  stand  fearless  forth, 

Sons  of  the  South !  stand,  wife  and  maid  ! 
Against  the  foul  insidious  North, 

Our  babes  shall  wield  the  battle-blade  ! 
On !  though  perennial  be  the  strife, 

For  honor  dear,  for  hearth-stone  fire  ; 
Give  blow  for  blow !  take  life  for  life  ! 

"  Strike  !  till  the  last  armed  foe  expire  !  " 
Up!  old  and  young,  etc. 


THE    BANNER   SONG. 

BY    JAMES   B.    MARSHALL. 

UP,  up  with  the  banner,  the  foe  is  before  us, 

His  bayonets  bristle,  his  sword  is  unsheathed, 
Charge,    charge    on    his    line    with    harmonious 

chorus, 

For   the   prayers  go  with   us  that   beauty  has 
breathed. 

He  fights  for  the  power  of  despot  and  plunder, 
While  we  are  defending  our  altars  and  homes  ; 

He  has  riven  the  firmly-knit  Union  asunder, 
And  to  bind  it  with  Tyranny's  fetters  he  comes. 


300  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Like   the   prophet   Mokanna,  whose   veil   so   re 
splendent, 

His  monstrous  deformity  closely  concealed, 
Duplicity  marks  Lincoln's  course,  and  dependent 

On  falsehood  is  every  fair  promise  revealed. 

When  that  veil    shall  be  raised,   Freedom's  last 

feast  be  taken, 
A    banquet    to    which    all    his    followers    will 

crowd  ; 

Oh,    horror    of    horrors !    who    can    view   it    un 
shaken  ? 
Without  sense  they   will  sit  all  in    suppliance 

bowed  ! 
We    do    not    forget    that    they   once   were    our 

brothers, 
That  we  sat  in  our  boyhood  around  the  same 

board, 
That   our   heart's   best    idolatry  blest    the    same 

mothers, 
And  to  the  same  fathers  libations  we  poured. 

We  rallied  around  the  same  star-spangled  stand 
ard, 
When  called  to  the  field  by  the  tocsin  of  war : 


THE  BANNER   SONG.  3OI 

But    they   from   our   side    have   unfeeling   wan 
dered, 

And  we  strip  from  our  flag  every  recusant  star. 
They  have  forced  us  to  stand  by  our  own  Con 
stitution, 
To   defend   our   lov'd   homesteads,    our   altars 

and  fires, 

While  they  tamely  submit  to  a  tyrant's  pollution, 
Beneath  whose  foul  tread  their  own  freedom 
expires. 

Then  up  with  the  banner,  its  broad  stripes  wide 

flowing — 

'Tis  the  emblem  of  Liberty — flag  of  the  free  ; 
Let   it   wave    us    to    triumph,    and    every   heart 

glowing, 

Nerve  each  arm's   bravest   blow  for  its   lov'd 
Tennessee. 


302  SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 
THE   SOUTHERN   HOMES   IN   RUINS. 

BY    R.    B.    VANCE. 

MANY  a  gray-haired  sire  has  died, 

As  falls  the  oak,  to  rise  no  more, 
Because  his  son,  his  prop,  his  pride, 

Breathed  out  his  last  all  red  with  gore. 
No  more  on  earth,  at  morn,  at  eve, 

Shall  age  and  youth,  entwined  as  one — 
Nor  father,  son,  for  either  grieve — 

Life's  work,  alas,  for  both  is  done! 

Many  a  mother's  heart  has  bled 

While  gazing  on  her  darling  child, 
As  in  its  tiny  eyes  she  read 

The  father's  image,  kind  and  mild  ; 
For  ne'er  again  his  voice  will  cheer 

The  widowed  heart,  which  mourns  him  dead  ; 
Nor  kisses  dry  the  scalding  tear, 

Fast  falling  on  the  orphan's  head ! 

Many  a  little  form  will  stray 
Adown  the  glen  and  o'er  the  hill, 

And  watch  with  wistful  looks  the  way 
For  him  whose  step  is  missing  still; 


THE   SOUTHERN  HOMES  IN  RUINS,   303 

And  when  the  twilight  steals  apace 

O'er  mead,  and  brook,  and  lonely  home, 

And  shadows  cloud  the  dear,  sweet  face — 
The  cry  will  be,  "  Oh,  papa,  come !  " 

And  many  a  home's  in  ashes  now, 

Where  joy  was  once  a  constant  guest, 
And  mournful  groups  there  are,  I  trow, 

With  neither  house  nor  place  of  rest; 
And  blood  is  on  the  broken  sill* 

Where  happy  feet  went  to  and  fro, 
And  everywhere,  by  field  and  hill, 

Are  sickening  sights  and  sounds  of  woe ; 

There  is  a  God  who  rules  on  high, 
The  widow's  and  the  orphan's  friend, 

Who  sees  each  tear  and  hears  each  sigh 
That  these  lone  hearts  to  Him  may  send! 

And  when  in  wrath  He  tears  away 
The  reasons  vain  which  men  indite, 

*  These  lines  were  suggested  by  the  following,  published 
in  "  Frank  Leslie's  Illustrated  Newspaper"  :  "We  know  a 
great  deal  about  war  now  ;  but,  dear  readers,  the  Southern 
women  know  more.  Blood  has  not  dripped  on  our  door-sills 
yet ;  shells  have  not  burst  above  our  homesteads.  Let  us  pray 
they  never  may." 


304  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

The  record-book  will  plainest  say 

Who's  in  the  wrong,  and  who  is  right. 


'TIS  MIDNIGHT  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  SKY. 

BY    MRS.    M.    J.    YOUNG. 

'Tis  midnight  in  the  Southern  sky — 

See  the  starry  cross  decline  ! 
The  watching  flowers,  all  bath'd  in  tears, 

Creep  o'er  the  mournful  sign  ! 

But  that  decline  but  serves  to  mark 

A  bright  and  glorious  hour, 
Whose  gleaming  splendors  shall  then  crown 

With  stars  the  simplest  flower  ! 

A  day  that  in  its  turn  shall  tell 

Of  the  starry  cross  uprighted  ! 
Then  weep  not — ev'ry  change  is  well — 

All  wrongs  shall  be  requited ! 


"STACK  ARMSr  3°5 

"  STACK   ARMS." 

BY    JOSEPH    BLYTHE    ALSTON.* 

"  STACK  arms  ! "     I've  gladly  heard  the   cry, 

When,  weary  with  the  dusty  tread 
Of  marching  troops,  as  night  grew  nigh, 

And  sank  upon  my  soldier  bed, 
And  calmly  slept ;  the  starry  dome 

Of  heaven's  blue  arch  my  canopy, 
And  mingled  with  my  dreams  of  home, 

The  thoughts  of  Peace  and  Liberty. 

"  Stack  arms  !  "    I've  heard  it,  when  the  shout, 

Exulting,  rang  along  our  line, 
Of  foes  hurled  back  in  bloody  rout, 

Captured,  dispersed  ;  its  tones  divine 
Then  came  to  mine  enraptured  ear, 

Guerdon  of  duty  nobly  done, 
And  glistened  on  my  cheek  the  tear 

Of  grateful  joy  for  victory  won. 

"  Stack  arms  !  "     In  faltering  accents,  slow 
And  sad,  it  creeps  from  tongue  to  tongue, 

*  Written  in  the  prison  of  Fort  Delaware,  Del.,  on  hearing 
of  General  Lee's  surrender. 

20 


306  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

A  broken,  murmuring  wail  of  woe, 

From  manly  hearts  by  anguish  wrung. 

Like  victims  of  a  midnight  dream, 

We  move,  we  know  not  how  nor  why, 

For  life  and  hope  but  phantoms  seem, 
And  it  would  be  relief — to  die. 


THE    INVOCATION. 

BY    B.    W.    W. 

GOD  bless  the  land  of  flowers, 
And  turn  its  winter  hours 

To  bright  summer  time  ! 
Be  the  brave  soldier's  friend, 
And  from  dangers  defend, 
When  Northern  balls  descend 

On  the  Southern  line  ! 

Father,  we  implore  Thee, 
Let  Thy  people  go  free 

From  their  foes  once  more  ! 
And  they  will  bend  the  knee, 
And  Thine  the  praise  shall  be, 


DOFFING    THE   GRAY.  307 

On  sunny  land  and  sea, 
As  in  days  of  yore ! 

Lord,  bid  the  carnage  cease, 
Let  the  banner  of  peace 

Again  be  unfurled  ! 
Two  nations  make  from  one, 
And  when  the  work  is  done, 
Over  both  reign  alone — 

Saviour  of  the  world ! 


DOFFING  THE   GRAY. 

BY    LIEUTENANT    FALLIGANT. 

OFF  with  your  gray  suits,  boys, 

Off  with  your  rebel  gear  I 
They  smack  too  much  of  the  cannon's  peal, 
The  lightning  flash  of  your  deadly  steel, 

The  terror  of  your  spear. 

Their  color  is  like  the  smoke 

That  curled  o'er  your  battle-line  ; 
They  call  to  mind  the  yell  that  woke 


308  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

When  the  dastard  columns  before  you  broke, 
And  their  dead  were  your  fatal  sign. 

Off  with  the  starry  wreath, 

Ye  who  have  led  our  van  ; 
To  you  'twas  the  pledge  of  glorious  death, 
When  we  followed  you  over  the  gory  heath, 

Where  we  whipped  them  man  to  man. 

Down  with  the  cross  of  stars — 

Too  long  hath  it  waved  on  high  ; 
'Tis  covered  all  over  with  battle-scars, 
But  its  gleam  the  Northern  banner  mars — 

'Tis  time  to  lay  it  by. 

Down  with  the  vows  we've  made, 

Down  with  each  memory — 
Down  with  the  thoughts  of  our  noble  dead — 
Down,  down  to  the  dust,  where  their  forms  are 
laid, 

And  down  with  Liberty. 


THE   CONFEDERATE  FLAG.  3°9 

THE   CONFEDERATE    FLAG. 

BY    FATHER    A.    J.    RYAN. 

TAKE  that  banner  down,  'tis  weary, 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary, 

Furl  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest ; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it — 
For  there's  not  a  soul  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  that  heroes  gave  it. 

Furl  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest. 

Take  that  banner  down,  'tis  tattered  ; 
Broken  is  its  staff,  and  shattered  ; 
And  the  valiant  hearts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh!  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it- 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it — 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it, 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  banner,  furl  it  sadly  ; 
Once  six  millions  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  three  hundred  thousand  madly, 
Swore  it  should  forever  wave — 


310  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever — 
That  their  flag  should  float  forever 
O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  ! 

Furl  it,  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low  ; 
And  that  banner — it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe  ; 
For  though  conquered,  they  adore  it, 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it, 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it — 
Oh  !  how  wildly  they  deplore  it, 

Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so  ! 

Furl  that  banner  ;  true  'tis  gory, 
But  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust; 
For  its  fame,  on  brightest  pages — 
Sung  by  poets,  penned  by  sages — 
Shall  go  sounding  down  to  ages — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 


FOLD  IT   UP   CAREFULLY.  311 

Furl  that  banner — softly,  slowly ; 
Furl  it  gently,  it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not,  unfurl  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled. 


FOLD   IT    UP   CAREFULLY. 

GALLANT  nation,  foiled  by  numbers, 
Say  not  that  your  hopes  are  fled  ; 

Keep  that  glorious  flag  which  slumbers, 
One  day  to  avenge  your  dead. 

Keep  it  till  your  children  take  it, 
Once  again  to  hail  and  make  it 
All  their  sires  have  bled  and  fought  for, 
All  their  noble  hearts  have  sought  for, 

Bled  and  fought  for  all  alone. 
All  alone !    aye,  shame  the  story, 

Millions  here  deplore  the  stain, 
Shame,  alas  !    for  England's  glory, 

Freedom  called,  and  called  in  vain. 


312  SOATGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Furl  that  banner,  sadly,  slowly, 
Treat  it  gently,  for  'tis  holy: 
'Till  that  day — yes,  furl  it  sadly, 
Then  once  more  unfurl  it  gladly — 
Conquered  Banner — keep  it  still !  * 


WHY   CAN    NOT   WE   BE    BROTHERS? 

BY    CLARENCE    PRENTICE. 

WHY  can  not  we  be  brothers  ?  the  battle  now  is 

o'er  ; 
We've    laid    our   bruis'd    arms    on    the    field,  to 

take  them  up  no  more  ; 
We  who  have  fought    you   hard   and    long,  now 

overpower'd  stand 
As  poor  defenseless  prisoners  in  our  own  native 

land. 
Chorus — We  know  that  we  are  Rebels, 

And  we  don't  deny  the  name, 
We  speak  of  that  which  we  have  done 
With   grief,  but  not  with  shame. 

*  A  reply  to   "  The  Conquered  Banner,"  by  Sir  Henry 
Houghton,  Bart.,  of  Great  Britain. 


WHY  CAN  NOT    WE  BE   BROTHERS.    313 

But  we  have  rights  most  sacred,  by  solemn  com 
pact  bound, 

Seal'd  by  the  blood  that  freely  gush'd  from  many 
a  ghastly  wound  ; 

When  Lee  gave  up  his  trusty  sword,  and  his 
men  laid  down  their  arms, 

It  was  that  they  should  live  at  home,  secure 
from  war's  dire  harms. 

And  surely,  since  weVe  now  disarmed,  we  are  not 

to  be  dreaded  ; 
Our  old  chiefs,  who  on    many  fields    our   trusty 

columns  headed, 
Are   fast    within    an    iron    grasp,    and    manacled 

with  chains, 
Perchance,  'twixt   dreary   walls    to  stay  as    long 

as  life  remains  ! 

Oh  !  shame  upon    the   coward  band,  who  in  the 

conflict  dire, 
Went   not   to   battle    for   their   cause,    'mid    the 

ranks  of  steel  and  fire, 
Yet  now,  since  all  the  fighting's  done,  are  hourly 

heard  to  cry  ; 
"  Down  with  the  traitors  !    hang    them    all,  each 

Rebel  dog  shall  die  !  " 


314  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

We  know  that  we  were    Rebels,  we   don't   deny 

the  name, 
We  speak  of  that  which  we  have  done  with  grief, 

but  not  with  shame  ! 
And  we  never  will  acknowledge   that  the  blood 

the  South  has  spilt, 
Was  shed  defending    what    we    deem'd  a  cause 

of  wrong  and  guilt. 


REUNITED. 

BY    FATHER    ABRAM    J.    RYAN.* 

PURER  than  thy  own  white  snow, 
Nobler  than  thy  mountain's  height, 

Deeper  than  the  ocean's  flow, 

Stronger  than  thy  own  proud  might ; 

Oh !    Northland,  to  thy  sister  land 

Was  late  thy  mercy's  generous  deed  and  grand. 

Nigh  twice  ten  years  the  sword  was  sheathed  ; 

Its  mist  of  green  o'er  battle  plain 
For  nigh  two  decades  spring  had  breathed  ; 

And  yet  the  crimson  life-blood  stain 
From  passive  swards  had  never  paled, 
Nor  fields,  where  all  were  brave  and  some   had 
failed. 

*  Written,  after  the  yellow-fever  epidemic  of  1878. 


316  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 

Between  the  Northland,  bride  of  snow, 
And  Southland,  brightest  sun's  fair  bride, 

Swept,  deepening  ever  in  its  flow, 

The  stormy  wake,  in  war's  dark  tide  : 

No  hand  might  clasp  across  the  tears, 

And  blood,  and  anguish  of  four  deathless  years. 

When  summer,  like  a  rose  in  bloom, 
Had  blossomed  from  the  bud  of  spring, 

Oh  !  who  could  deem  the  dews  of  doom 
Upon  the  blushing  lips  could  cling? 

And  who  could  believe  its  fragrant  light 

Would    e'er    be    freighted    with    the    breath    of 
blight  ? 

Yet  o'er  the  Southland  crept  the  spell, 
That  e'en  from  out  its  brightness  spread  ; 

And  prostrate,  powerless,  she  fell, 
Rachel-like,  amid  her  dead. 

Her  bravest,  fairest,  purest,  best, 

The  waiting  grave  would  welcome,  as  its  guest. 

The  Northland,  strong  in  love,   and  great, 

Forgot  the  stormy  days  of  strife  ; 
Forgot  that  souls  with  dreams  of  hate, 

Or  unforgiveness,  e'er  were  rife. 


REUNITED.  31/ 

Forgotten  was  each  thought  and  hushed, 

Save — she  was  generous  and  her  foe  was  crushed. 

No  hand  might  clasp,  from  land  to  land; 

Yea !  there  was  one  to  bridge  the  tide  ; 
For  at  the  touch  of  Mercy's  hand 

The  North  and  South  stood  side  by  side  : 
The  Bride  of  Snow,  the  Bride  of  Sun, 
In  Charity's  espousals  are  made  one. 

"  Thou  givest  back  my  sons  again/' 
The  Southland  to  the  Northland  cries  ; 

"  For  all  my  dead,  on  battle  plain, 
Thou  biddest  my  dying  now  uprise  : 

I  still  my  sobs,  I  cease  my  tears, 

And  thou  hast  recompensed  my  anguished  years. 

"  Blessings  on  thine  every  wave, 

Blessings  on  thine  every  shore, 
Blessings  that  from  sorrows  save, 

Blessings  giving  more  and  more, 
For  all  thou  gavest  thy  sister  land, 
Oh !     Northland,    in    thy    generous     deed    and 
grand." 


INDEX. 


A  Ballad  of  the  War.  George 
Herbert  Sass.  179. 

A  Cry  to  Arms.  Henry  Tim- 
rod,  72. 

"A.  M.  W.,"68. 

Address  of  the  Women  to  the 
Southern  Troops.  Mrs.  Jane 
T.  H.  Cross,  160. 

Alexandria,  The  Martyr  of,  36. 

Alston,  Joseph  Blythe,  of  South 
Carolina,  305. 

A  New  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 
Jeff  Thompson,  153. 

Antrobur,  John,  196. 

A  Poem  for  the  Times.  John 
R.  Thompson,  5. 

A  Poem  which  Needs  no  Dedi 
cation.  James  Barren  Hope, 
264. 

"A  Rebel,"  92. 

Arise.     C.  G.  Poynas,  20. 

Arm  for  the  Southern  Land. 
Mirabeau  B.  Lamar,  235. 

"  A  Soldier's  Wife,"  256 

"  Atlanta  Confederacy,"  62. 


Ballard,  Sallie  E.,  of  Texas,  44. 
Band  in  the  Pines,  The.    John 

Esten  Cooke,  230. 
Banner  Song,  The.     James  B. 

Marshall,  299. 

Barrick,  J.  R.,  of  Kentucky,  192. 
Battle-field  of  Manassas,  The. 

M.  F.  Bigney,  98. 
Battle    at     Bull     Run,     The. 

"  Ruth,"  137. 
Battle  -  Call.     Annie  Chambers 

Ketchum,  131. 
Beaufort,  F.  P.,  108. 
Beauregard  Songster,  The,  171. 
Bell,  Maurice,  190. 
Beyond  the  Potomac.     Paul  H. 

Hayne,  204. 
Bigney,  M.  F.,  98,  126. 
Blue     Cockade,     The.       Mary 

Walsingham  Crean,  83. 
Blunt,  Mrs.  Ellen  Key,  292. 
Bombardment    of    Vicksburg. 

Paul  H.  Hayne,  278. 
Bonnie  Blue  Flag,  The.     Harry 

Macarthy,  135. 


320  SONGS  OF   THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 


Box,  Rev.  A.  M.,  78. 
Boy-Soldier,  The.     A  Lady  of 

Savannah,  284. 
Burgess,  G.  T.,  172. 
Burn  the   Cotton.     "  Estelle," 

211. 

"B.  W.  W.,"3o6. 

Call  All!     Call  All!      "Geor 
gia,"  31. 

Canedo,  Mrs.  Margarita  J.,  199. 
"  Caroline,"  23. 
Cavaliers  of  Dixie,  The.     Benj. 

F.  Porter,  162. 
"Charleston  Mercury,"  23. 
Chivalrous  C.  S.  A.    "  B.,"  96. 
Civile    Bellum.       "The    Once 

United  States,"  271. 
"C.  L.  S.,"  175- 
Confederate  Flag,  The.     J.  R. 

Barrick,  192. 
Confederate  Flag,  The.     Mrs. 

C.  D.  Elder,  222. 
Confederate  Flag,  The.    Father 

A.  J.  Ryan,  309. 
Confederate  Land.      By  H.  H. 

Strawb ridge,  298. 
"Confederate  Prisoner,"  226. 
Confederate   Song.      Capt.    E. 

Lloyd  Wailes,  109. 
Cooke,  John  Esten,  230. 
"Cora,"  252. 

Crean,  Mary  Walsingham,  83. 
Cross,  Mrs.  J.  T.  H.,  160. 
C.  S.  A.     Father  Ryan,  288. 
Cummins,  Alex.  H.,  248. 

Dixie.     Albert  Pike,  38. 


"DeG.,"8i. 

Doffing  the  Gray.     Lieutenant 

Falligant,  307. 
Dying  Soldier,  The.     James  A. 

Mecklin,  239. 

Elbert,  Evan,  27. 
Elder,  Mrs.  C.  D.,  222. 
Estelle,  211,  260. 
Estres,  William  C.,  243. 
Ethnogenesis.       Henry     Tim- 
rod,  9. 

Falligant,  Lieutenant,  of  Sa 
vannah,  Georgia,  307. 

Farewell  to  Brother  Jonathan. 
"  Caroline,"  23. 

Flash,  Henry  L.,  of  Texas,  85, 
246. 

"  Follow,  Boys,  Follow  !"  Mil 
lie  Mayfield,  273. 

Fold  it  up  Carefully.  Sir  Hen 
ry  Houghton,  311. 

Freer,  M.  C.,  HI. 

French,  L.  Virginia,  129. 

From  the  South  to  the  North. 
C.  L.  S.,  175. 

"Georgia,"  31. 

Girls  of  the  Monumental  City. 

"  Confederate  Prisoner,"  226. 
God  Save  the  South.     Reuben 

Nason,  268. 
Gone  to  the  Battle-field.     John 

Antrobur,  196. 
Gray,  Nanny,  30. 
Guerillas,  The.  S.  TeackleWal- 

lis,  166. 


INDEX. 


321 


Harp  of  the  South.  "Cora," 
252. 

Harp  of  the  South,  Awake.  J. 
M.  Kilgour,  17. 

Hayne,  Paul  H.,  204,  278. 

Heart  of  Louisiana,  The.  Har 
riet  Stanton,  63. 

Heart  Victories.  "A  Soldier's 
Wife,"  256. 

"H.  M.  L.,"  128. 

Holcombe,  Wm.  H.,  of  Louisi 
ana,  77. 

Holtz,  Robert  E.,  149. 

Hood,  Thomas  B.,  139. 

Hope,  James  Barren,  264. 

Houghton,  Sir  Henry,  Bart., 
312. 

Invocation,  The.  B.  W.  W., 
306. 

Jackson.     Henry  L.  Flash,  246. 

Jackson,  Gen.  H.  R.,  of  Louisi 
ana,  114. 

Jacobus,  Mrs.  J.  J.,  33. 

"J.  H.  H.,"66. 

Johnson,  Bradley  T.,  19. 

Justice  is  our  Panoply.  De  G., 
81. 

Kentucky.     "  Estelle, "  260. 
Ketchum,  Anna  Chambers,  131. 
Keyes,  Julia  L.,  of  Ala.,  121. 
Kilgour,  J.  M.,  17. 
Killum,  John,  233. 

Lamar,  Gen.  M.  B.,  235,  269. 
Land  of  King  Cotton.     Jo.  Au 
gustine  Signiago,  164. 
21 


Land  of    the    South.      A.    F. 

Leonard,  185. 
Legion  of  Honor,  The.     H.  L. 

Flash,  85. 

Leonard,  A.  F.,  185. 
Lomas,  Henry,  253. 
Lorrimer,  Laura,  142. 

Macarthy,  Harry,  135. 
Manassas.     "A  Rebel,"  92. 
Marseilles  Hymn,  The.      B.  F. 

Porter,  of  Alabama^  216. 
Marshall,  James  B.,  299. 
Martin,  Rev.  J.  H.,  45. 
Martyr    of     Alexandria,     The. 

James  W.  Simmons,  36. 
Mayfield,  Millie,  90,  249,  273. 
Maryland.     James  R.  Randall, 

69. 

McCabe,  J.  D.,  Jr.,  296. 
McLemore,  John  C.,   of  South 

Carolina,  87. 
Mecklin,  James  A.,  239. 
Meek,  A.   B.,   of  Mobile,  Ala 
bama,  52. 
Melt  the  Bells.     F.  Y.  Rockett. 

47- 

Miles,  George  H.,  of  Bait.,  123. 
Monody  on  the  Death  of  Gen. 

Stonewall     Jackson.      "The 

Exile,"  220. 
Moore,  Emily  J.,  210. 
"M.  S.,"24i. 
Murden,  E.  O.,  54. 
My  Wife  and  Child.     Gen.  H. 

R.  Jackson,  of  Louisiana,  114. 

Nason,  Reuben,  268. 


322  SONGS  OF    THE   SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 


New  Orleans  "  True  Delta,"  43. 
"Nil      Desperandum."        Ada 

Rose,  158. 
No   Surrender.      "  N.  P.  W.," 

234. 

No  Union  Men.  Millie  May- 
field,  249. 

"  N.  P.  W.,"  146,  234. 

O  Johnny  Bull,  my  Jo  John,  154. 

Old  Betsy.     John  Killum,  233. 

Old  Rifleman,  The.  Frank 
Ticknor,  M.  D.,  119. 

Only  One  Killed.  Julia  L. 
Keyes,  121. 

On  !  Southron,  on  !  M.  B.  La- 
mar,  269. 

Ordered  Away,  The.  Mrs.  J. 
J.  Jacobus,  33. 

Our  Boys  are  Gone.  Col.  Ham 
ilton  Washington,  141. 

Overall,  John  W.,  of  La.,  41, 
145,  259. 

Patriotism,  294. 

UP.  E.  C.,"  116. 

Pensacola,  To  my  Son.  M.  S., 
241. 

Pierpont,  James,  29. 

Pike,  Albert,  of  Arkansas,  38. 

Porter,  Benjamin  F. ,  of  Ala 
bama,  162,  216,  228. 

Poynas,  C.  G.,  of  South  Caro 
lina,  20. 

Prentice,  Clarence,  312. 

Printers  of  Virginia  to  Old  Abe, 
The.  Harry  C.  Treakle,  214. 

Prize  Song,  The,  201. 


Randall,  James  R.,  of  Mary 
land,  69,  188. 

Rebels  !  'tis  a  Holy  Name  !  "At 
lanta  Confederacy,"  61. 

Re-enlistment.  Mrs.  Margarita 
J.  Canedo,  199. 

Requier,   A.  J.,    of    Alabama, 

143- 

Reunited.     Father  Ryan,  315. 
"  Richmond  Examiner,"  52. 
Richmond  on   the   James.     G. 

T.  Burgess,  172. 
Right  Above  the  Wrong,  The. 

John  W.  Overall,  41. 
Rivers,  Pearl,  208. 
Rivers,  W.  P.,  281. 
Rockett,  F.  Y.,  47. 
Rose,  Ada,  158. 
"  Ruth,"  137. 
Ryan,   Father  A.  J.,  276,   288, 

309,  3i5. 

Sass,  George  Herbert,  of  South 

Carolina,  179. 
Savannah,  A  Lady  of,  284. 
Seventy  -  Six    and    Sixty  -  One. 

John  W.  Overall,  259. 
Signiago,  Jo.  Augustine,  164. 
Simmons,  Jas.  W.,  of  Texas,  36. 
Simms,  Wm.  Gilmore,  290. 
Soldier  Boy,   The.     H.  M.  L., 

128. 
Soldier's   Heart,    The.      F.    P. 

Beaufort,  108. 
Song  for  the   Maryland   Line. 

J.  D.  McCabe,  Jr.,  296. 
Song  of  the  Glorious  Southland. 

Mrs.  Mary  Ware,  231. 


INDEX. 


323 


Song  of  the    Privateer.     Alex. 

H.  Cummins,  248. 
Sons  of  Freedom.    Nanny  Gray, 

30- 
South  in  Arms,  The.     Rev.  J. 

H.  Martin,  45. 

South  is  Up,  The.  P.  E.  C. ,  1 16. 
Southern  Cross,  The.  St.  George 

Tucker,  14. 
Southern    Cross,    The.      Ellen 

Key  Blunt,  292. 
Southern  Gathering  Song.     L. 

Virginia  French,  129. 
Southern  Homes  in  Ruins,  The. 

R.  B.  Vance,  302. 
Southern  Marseillaise.     "  Beau- 
regard  Songster,"  170. 
Southern  Pleiades,  The.    Laura 

Lorrimer,  142. 
Southern   Sentiment.     Rev.  A. 

M.  Box,  78. 
Southern  Song.     M.  C.   Freer, 

in. 
Southern  Song  of  Freedom.    J. 

H.  H.,  65. 
Southern  War  Song.    N.  P.  W., 

146. 
Southland.    "  The  Prize  Song," 

2OI. 

Southern  Mother's  Charge,  The. 
Thomas  B.  Hood,  139. 

"Southrons."  Catharine  M. 
War  field,  156. 

Southron's  War  Song,  The.  J. 
A.  Wagener,  80. 

"  Stack  Arms  !  "  J.  Blythe  Als 
ton,  of  South  Carolina,  305. 


Stanton,  Harriet,  63. 

Stars  and  Bars,  The.  A.  J.  Re- 
quier,  143. 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way,  194. 

Strawbridge,  H.  H.,  298. 

Sweet  South,  The.  Wm.  Gil- 
more  Simms,  290. 

Sumter,  A  Ballad  of  1861.  E. 
O.  Murden,  54. 

Tell  the  Boys  the  War  is  Ended. 
Emily  J.  Moore,  210. 

"The  Exile,"  220. 

The  March.  John  W.  Overall, 
145. 

The  Men.     Maurice  Bell,  190. 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land 
Yet.  J.  R.  Randall,  188. 

There's  Nothing  going  Wrong. 
A.  M.  W.,  67. 

"The  South."  Charlie  Wild- 
wood,  223. 

"The  Star  of  the  West." 
"  Charleston  Mercury,"  22. 

The  Sword  of  Robert  Lee.  Fa 
ther 'Ryan,  276. 

Thinking  of  the  Soldiers,  237. 

Thompson,  Jeff.,  153. 

Thompson,  John  R.,  of  Vir 
ginia,  5. 

Ticknor,  Frank,  M.  D.,  of  Geor 
gia,  119,  286. 

Timrod,  Henry,  of  South  Caro 
lina,  9,  72. 

'Tis  Midnight  in  the  Southern 
Sky.  Mrs.  M.  J.  Young, 
304- 


324  SONGS   OF    THE    SOUTHERN  PEOPLE. 


To  My  Soldier  Brother.     Sallie 

E.  Ballard,  44. 
To    the     Tories    of     Virginia. 

41  Richmond  Examiner,"  49. 
Treakle,  Harry  C.,  214. 
True  to  the  Gray.    Pearl  Rivers, 

208. 
Tucker,  St.  George,  of  Virginia, 

14. 
Turtle,  The,  245. 

Uniform  of  Gray,  The.     Evan 

Elbert,  27. 

United  States,  The  Once,  273. 
Up !    Up  !    let  the  Stars  of  our 

Banner.     M.  F.  Bigney,  126. 

Vance,  R.  B.,  of  North  Caro 
lina,  302. 

Virginia  :  Late  but  Sure  !  Will 
iam  H.  Holcombe,  77. 

Virginians  of  the  Valley.  Frank 
Ticknor,  M.  D.,  286. 

Volunteers  to  the  Melish.  W. 
C.  Estres,  243. 

Wagener,  J.  A.,  of  South  Caro 
lina,  80. 

Wailes,  Capt.  E.  Lloyd,  109. 

Wallis,  S.  Teackle,  of  Mary 
land,  166. 

War  Christian's  Thanksgiving, 
The.  George  H.  Miles,  of 
Maryland,  123. 


Ware,  Mrs.  Mary,  231. 

Warfield,  Catharine  M.,  of  Mis 
sissippi,  156. 

War  Song.  A.  B.  Meek,  of 
Mobile,  52. 

War  Song.     By  a  Lady,  75. 

War  Song.  J.  H.  Wood 
cock,  151. 

War  Song  of  the  Partisan 
Rangers.  B.  F.  Porter, 
228. 

Washington,  Col.  Hamilton,  of 
Texas,  141. 

"  We  Come  !  We  Come  !  " 
Millie  Mayfield,  90. 

We  Conquer  or  Die.  James 
Pierpont,  29. 

We'll  be  Free  in  Maryland. 
Robert  E.  Holtz,  149. 

What  the  Spirits  of  the  Fa 
thers  say.  Henry  Lomas, 

253- 
"What  the  Village  Bell  said." 

John  McLemore,  87. 
Whoop  !  the  Doodles,  31. 
Why  can  not  We  be  Brothers  ? 

Clarence  Prentice,  312. 
Wildwood,  Charlie,  223. 
Woodcock,  J.  H.,  151. 

Yankee    Devil,    The.     W.    P. 

Rivers,  281. 
Young,  Mrs.  M.  J.,  304. 


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